PS: I Hate You
by TwiLyght Sans Sparkles
Summary: Regulus writes a rude note to Voldemort...and starts a trend.
1. Regulus Black

_Steady...steady..._

No matter how hard I try, my hand won't stop shaking. I try to steady it, and it only shakes harder, splattering ink on the parchment like drops of blood long since dried.

Blood. My blood, soon to be spilled.

Or maybe not. Maybe he'll use a Killing Curse. That would be quicker, at least.

I draw my breath in sharply, willing myself to stop contemplating my own death. I have to get this note written, and I can't write it if my hand won't stop shaking. But how to begin?

_My Lord,_ I begin, then cross that out. Voldemort is not my lord, and he never was. Perhaps in name, but the Mark only blights my skin. My soul is free.

_My soon-to-be-ex-master..._I cross that out, too and grab another piece of parchment, waiting for inspiration to strike. It comes to me like Sirius whispering a joke in my ear.

_Dear Moldy-Shorts, _

I smile. Perfect.

_This is just to let you know that your precious little horcrux has been found by ME. And guess what? I'm not giving it back! I'm going to destroy it and it'll be the most fun I ever had. _

This is like a fake breakup note Sirius and I wrote when we were kids and our cousin Andromeda split with her first boyfriend. She wasn't sure how to dump him, so we wrote one for her. Ours was never sent, but she said she peed her pants laughing.

_You're a coward, by the way--making all those horcruxes so you wouldn't have to die. Can you say WIMPY! Even I'm not going to do that_

Never mind that I don't know how.

_--and I'm about to die! And guess what? I'm not scared. _

I am such a liar.

_Go ahead and kill me. You can take my life, but you can't stop what I've started. You're going to die, Moldy-Shorts, and there's nothing you can do about it. _

This is actually sort of fun. Too bad I've run out of words.

Wait--not yet...I have one more insult.

_Here's hoping someone castrates you with a rusty spoon and craps on your grave. _

_Signed, R.A.B. _

Smiling, I fold the note until it's the size of a piece of chewing gum and stuff it inside the locket, then shove the real horcrux into my pocket.

I am just about to leave my home forever when I think of something else--something I need to add to the note.

_P.S.: I hate you. _


	2. Peter Pettigrew

_I'm going to try and go in chronological order with this hate mail. So, without further ado, here is Peter Pettigrew. _

* * *

The blank page mocks me.

_You can't write this note, _it seems to say. _You're too scared of the Dark Lord to write a note you'll never send. _

_Am not, _I counter lamely, then suck on my quill. Try as I might to draw them from the quill and into my brain, words refuse to come.

_He killed James and Lily, _that voice says. _Don't you hate him just the tiniest bit for that? _

Of course I do. But words won't come for the simple reason that I'm too chicken to write a note I'll never send. Oddly enough, that seems to be a good place to start.

_To the Dark Lord, _

_I wasn't going to write this note. For a long time, I thought I was too chicken to write it, but now I guess I've proven me wrong. _

Guess I've proven me wrong? What kind of a sentence is _that_? I remind myself that the Dark Lord will never read this note and continue.

_When I took the Mark, you said I was strong. You said it took true stregnth to stand against one's friends. Although I know you were right--know you're still right--I've come to see that _

I breathe deeply, fighting tears.

_if I could do things over, I would rather have died with James and Lily than lived as your servant. _

I smile bitterly. The truth is out.

_But I've made the choice already. I can't make it again. Do I wish otherwise? Of course I do. Every single day of this pathetic, grovelling existance I call my life._

Nice wording, that.

_I wish you could read this note. But halfway through wishing, I realize that if you read this note, you wouldn't care. _

Would he?

_Signed, _

_Peter Pettigrew_

I cross that out.

_Signed, _

_Wormtail _

That old screw-the-world attitude James and Sirius embraced so freely comes upon me long enough for me to add something to the note.

_P.S.: I hate you. _

I reread the note, then, with a tap of my wand, flames dissolve it to ashes.


	3. Rodolphus Lestrange

_I'm probably going to do Snape next, but I think Rudolphus needed his say. And yes, I know this is going back to before Lily and James were killed, but whatever. _

* * *

I cannot believe I'm doing this.

Here I am, sitting at the table, sorting out the wording for a hate note to my master. Who my wife is probably having an affair with.

That last fact makes the idea of writing a hate note to him a bit more believable. I take a deep breath, dip my quill in ink, and begin.

_My Lord, _

That's the only proper way to begin, I think. But how to continue?

_Everyone knows you're the most powerful wizard who ever lived. The greatest, too. _

A little flattery never hurt.

_And that's the problem: You're just too cool. Too amazing, too perfect--especially in the eyes of my wife. _

_She's OBSESSED with you. All she ever talks about is the Dark Lord this and Dark Lord that, he's so amazing and his bald head is so shiny and his red eyes are so dreamy blah di blah di blah...I CAN'T TAKE IT ANYMORE!! _

_Do us all a favor and STOP BEING SO COOL!! Seriously, people would like you more if you showed your vulnerable side! _

Does he even have one? Probably not, but I'm going to pretend he does for a second.

_I would be a lot more enthusiastic about serving you if I didn't suspect Bellatrix of snogging you every time I turn my back. _

I shudder. What a terrible thought--his lips (or lack thereof) pressed against hers...

_So please, take my advice. Do something unexpected, like reveal a seafood allergy or get defeated by an infant. _

I snort derisively. As if _that'll_ ever happen.

_Tone it down, _

_An aspiring P.R. representative _

The next few words seem to flow from my quill of their own accord.

_P.S.: I hate you _

I stare at the postscript for a moment--first in horror, then in acceptance. Do I truly hate him?

Yes. Yes, I do.

With that, I fold the note and shove it into my pocket. Perhaps one day he'll read it.


	4. Severus Snape

Right this moment, I find it hard to breathe.

Lily is dead--will be dead--before I know it. I told Dumbledore, and the fact that my concern was only for Lily and not James or their son disgusted him. I wanted to ask him if he knew, if he could possibly understand how I felt after all James did to me, but knew that question would earn me another lecture that I wasn't prepared to hear.

I pace restlessly. Pacing won't help Lily; I don't think anyone can now. A sob threatens to choke me and I push it back; then, on a whim, I grab a piece of parchment and a quill. A plan. I need to make a plan.

I sit down at my desk, but plans are elusive. I touch my quill to the paper and words flow easily, but they are not the words I wanted.

_Dear Lord Fartypants, _

Lord Fartypants? What am I, four? Still, I must admit it's funny. I laugh despite my resolve and continue writing, if only to see what comes next.

_You have no idea how good it feels to write that. I wish I could call you that to your face, but _

I hate the words that come next. I don't want to write them, but I write them anyway.

_I'm too much of a coward for that. _

There. I said it.

_Not in your eyes, I know; to you, cowards are people who call you names and spit in your face. People like the Longbottoms. People like Lily. _

_From the time she rejected me, I wanted to join you. It was Lily who (in a sick, twisted way) drove me to join you, and it was Lily who drove me to betray you. _

_Dumbledore is doing everything he can to stop you. I told him I would do anything to help, anything at all, and if this is the only promise I keep, it'll be worth it. _

I smile through my tears as the next words land on the page.

_Here's hoping you get trampled to death by ducks. _

_Absolutely sincerely, _

_Severus Snape _

_P.S.: I hate you. _

I crumple the note up and shove it in my pocket.

* * *

_If anyone has any suggestions for who I should write next, let me know. I'd like to stay in the Marauder Era for now, but remember: everyone is game, non-Deathies included. _


	5. Sirius Black

_Before reading, you need to realize the following: _

_1. Rowling was ridiculously vague about how Sirius found out about Peter's betrayal. I don't remember hearing much about how Sirius found out, or when. So I'm filling it in here. _

_2. I'm technically not allowed to read the Harry Potter series, so I don't own any of the books. Therefore, I can't go back over _Prisoner of Azkaban _to make sure I got the facts right. So just sit back and enjoy the fallacies, okay? If I made any mistakes, I made them to increase dramatic tension. _

_

* * *

_

_Peace is a sedative, but rage is a blindfold. _

I don't remember where I heard that--probably one of my friends reminding me how to throw a punch--but I'm currently recognizing the truth in that statement. I can't even see the parchment past the tears of rage blinding me.

James is dead.

Peter is a traitor.

And Remus is totally clueless.

Strike that--he's not _totally _clueless. He knows about James, but in his mind he has me confused with Peter. He thinks I was the Potters' Secret Keeper.

I touch quill to parchment.

_You bastard, _

_What the hell is wrong with you? Aside from the obvious, I mean. _

I wipe the tears away with the back of my hand, reread what I've written, and frown. Where did all this hostility come from? The question makes me smile--the answer is so obvious--and I continue to write.

_Not only do you have no nose, you also lack a spine, and would be a formless heap of evil if you weren't propped up by those mindless drones you call your followers. _

I read that and smile. I didn't know I could come up with such a good metaphor.

_You call yourself a wizard, but you're really a theif. Not a theif of magic--there is no such thing--but a theif of other things. _

_You stole James and Lily. You took my best friends from me without giving any of us a chance to say goodbye. _

_You stole Peter, twisting his mind with your deception and fear. _

_You stole Remus, letting him think the worst of me while Peter leaves with his cowardly skin unscathed. _

_You stole Regulus. You already know how. _

My manifesto is almost complete. I've taken the first few steps--get angry, insult the recipient, state your causes. Only one step remains: a call to action.

_In decent society, theives are punished. Since ours seems to have gone down the drain along with your spine, I shall take the law into my own hands. Vigilantes may be hated, but they are always thanked in the end--provided they accomplish their goal. _

_In other words, I'm coming after you. I'll start with Peter--he probably knows where you are--and when I find you....well, let's just say there will be pain. Castration is a good place to start. _

I smile wickedly at the thought.

_Don't look for me. By the time you find me, I'll be standing over your prone body, cleaning my knife. _

Another wonderful picture to savor.

_Sincerely, _

_Sirius Black _

And now, to state the obvious:

_P.S.: I hate you. _

I fold the note and begin polishing my knife.

* * *


	6. Augusta Longbottom

* * *

I hate St. Mungo's.

It's a fairly recent thing; the first time I visited the hospital it put my mind at ease. It was reassuring, knowing my father would be safe beneath the wings of a well-trained staff. The smells of various potions mingled into a strange, soothing aroma that seemed to say _Don't worry, he'll be fine_. This time, the cacophony of smells nauseated me, and I think I scared a young Healer in Training when I told the portrait of Dilys Derwent to shut up. Her words, meant to be reassuring, only brought tears to my eyes.

_"Don't worry," _she said in that soft voice of hers. _"They'll recover." _

Dilys Derwent is clueless. Frank and Alice will never recover.

Anyone who has seen them knows this. The Healers allowed me to see them--Frank is my son, after all--but I doubt they saw me. Alice shrank back when I entered, buried her head in her hands and sobbed. Not out of sorrow or shame that I should see her like this, but out of fear. Frank shied away as well, edging away until his back was pressed against the window, shaking his head as if to say no, it's not me, I'm not the one you want. The Healer gently took his arm.

"It's your mother, Frank," she said cheerfully. "Augusta Longbottom. You know her." But I could see by the look in his eyes that he didn't. In his mind, everyone who isn't a Healer is Bellatrix Lestrange.

I angrily swat the hair out of my eyes and wipe my tears with the back of my hand, then put quill to parchment.

_Lord Voldemort, _

His name, ominous to the ear, looks even more terrifying on paper. I fully expect the letters to leap from the page and attack me, but I don't change them.

_You may not know me, but I know you. You may be wondering why I am not afraid to use your true name, unlike those glorified bullies you call your followers. The reason: While I may not yet be too old to fear anything, I am too angry to fear you. _

I frown. Is this true? Of course it is.

_Bellatrix Lestrange is a bully. That is all she is and all she will ever be. The difference between her and a halfwit who steals students' Hogsmeade money is you. The money-stealer may have muscle and a few friends who encourage his behavior, but Bellatrix Lestrange has a powerful wizard who favors her and helps her cheat on her husband. _

I think about erasing that last line and don't. The rumors surrounding Bellatrix and Voldemort are probably accurate, and the more dirt I have on them, the better.

_You're an enabler. That's all you are. You take the bullies, give them wands and dangerous curses, and tell them to have at it. No one stands in their way--not the Ministry, not the Potters, not my son and his wife. Now the Ministry is wringing its hands, the Potters are dead _

Tears blur my vision and it is a moment before I can remind myself of the horrible truth.

_and Frank and Alice don't even know me. _

I have stated my grievances and reasons for hatred. Now to name my intentions.

_I don't know where you are, but I know that when I find you, I will use curses so painful you will wonder why you didn't invent them in the first place. Your minions will cry when they see what I've done to you, as I cry when I see what you've done to Frank and Alice. Their son will grow to hate you, and when you show your slimy, noseless face again....well, let's just say you'll be missing more than a nose. _

Maybe an eye....or a foot....or a head. I smile at the thought.

_Go to hell, _

It's where he belongs.

_Augusta Longbottom _

_P.S.: I hate you._


	7. Lucius Malfoy

Nothing makes sense anymore.

First, a bloody Gryffindor joins the Dark Lord. I know nearly every teacher at Hogwarts (all of the Hufflepuffs, anyway) say nobody cares what House you were in after you graduate. Much as I've tried to believe them, I've discovered that this is simply not true. _Everyone _cares about Houses, especially employers. Since the Dark Lord is an employer in his own right, I thought he would care the most.

How very wrong I was.

Instead of a Killing Curse, that simpering crybaby known as Peter Pettigrew was given the Mark and the most interesting tasks. Not that he appreciated them. He whined and carried on like Draco when he screams to be fed and then, when the task was completed, whined and carried on some more.

Shocking as that development was, it was nothing compared to this. That was a surprise, but this, _this_....

Narcissa always says tells me to share my feelings. "It'll make you feel better," she says with that sarcastic half-smile on her lips. Now I'm actually starting to believe her. I put quill to parchment and write.

_My Lord,_

_WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU?! _

What the hell is wrong with _me_? You don't just say something like that to the greatest wizard who ever lived!

Lived. Past tense. The reminder hits me with the force of a Bludger, and I continue.

_You always had a profound disdain for quick defeats. If one of us was kicked in the crotch by a teenager, your wrath was severe. And now you go and get defeated by an infant. _

The irony would be hilarious if my future wasn't at stake.

_Thanks to that profound foresight on your part, I might be going to Azkaban! _

I've just decided that Azkaban is the ugliest word in the English language.

_The Ministry already hates us--how do you think THAT will factor into the wizengamot's decision? Answer: A LOT! _

_You had better have a pretty good trick up your sleeve, my lord. If you don't come back....well, I haven't quite gotten that far, but rest assured you won't like it. _

I should probably come up with an actual threat...

_Here's a piece of advice: Stay away from infants, especially ones named Harry Potter. _

_Signed, _

_Lucius Malfoy_

_P.S.: I hate you. _


	8. Albus Dumbledore

_

* * *

_

Tom Riddle lives.

I do not know this for certain; I have no facts to back up my claim. I only have hints, rumors, a sneaking suspcion that Voldemort did not die when he murdered James and Lily Potter. Tom lives because he would not let himself die--unlike those lives he ended with wild abandon.

Today marks the fifth day of celebration--the fifth day in a row that witches and wizards all over Britain have abandoned school and work to laugh, embrace one another in the streets, and congratulate each other though none of them had anything to do with Voldemort's defeat. I do not join them. Although I understand their joy, the tremendous loss of life--and the tragedy behind it--prevent me from joining in the celebrations. Instead, I sit in my office, quill in hand, parchment blank and awaiting instruction. After a long moment of contemplation, the proper words arrive.

_My Dearest Tom, _

_Please do not crumple this paper and burn it to ashes at my use of your true name. You will always be Tom to me, no matter how long you hide behind the name Lord Voldemort. _

The mental image of eleven-year-old Tom, merry and whole, hiding behind the monster known as Voldemort brings tears to my eyes. I push them back.

_As I write this, the wizarding world celebrates your defeat. And why shouldn't they? You rained terror on them for over ten years, murdering their loved ones and stealing all they held dear. Over a decade of terror has been ended by an innocent baby whose death you desired above all else. _

I smile. Little Harry Potter, so angelic-looking as he slept....the complete antithesis to all Voldemort stood for.

_They believe you are dead. Perhaps they only hope, but you and I both know their hope is in vain. Death was too shameful a thing for you to suffer. You would not have let it happen. Not to you, at least. _

_Such a selfish dream you had! You desired above all else to trample over death, to lock it behind a steel door where it could not touch you--and I believe you have succeeded. But at what price? _

_Perhaps you are too blinded by the glory of your accomplishments to see them for what they are. While you see victory, countless innocents see defeat. What you see as your greatest acheivement, I see as your downfall. Everything has a price, and the price for avoiding death is quite steep: human lives, suffering, your innocence--not to mention your nose. _

I smile through my tears, wondering how that happened. Was it too much dabbling in the Dark Arts, or a game of "Got Your Nose" gone horribly wrong?

_Some of those things can never be replaced. There is no recalling to life of those trampled upon as you forged your path, no taking back of the suffering they endured. But the beauty of innocence is that--perhaps like your nose--it can be restored. _

_Will it be easy? Of course not. Restoring innocence is like restoring a masterpiece that has been at the bottom of a trash heap. But like the masterpiece, once innocence is restored, it is more beautiful than a sunset, more costly than time. It is, as the Spanish saying goes, "worth the pain." _

_I do not expect you to fall to your knees, overcome by remorse. But I do expect you to think about what I have told you in this letter. Contemplate it. After all, thinking was what you always did best. _

_Yours, _

_Albus Dumbledore _

Thinking got him started down the wrong path; perhaps it can get him back on the right one. To see Tom Riddle restored to what he was meant to be--_that _would be a masterpiece.

* * *


	9. Bellatrix Lestrange

* * *

_A short note about the previous chapter: Yes, I know I left off the "PS: I hate you". That was intentional for the simple reason that Dumbledore does not hate Voldemort. He would logically write a note to him, but ending it with "PS: I hate you"? Not so much, IMO. _

_Anyways, here's another note._

* * *

How can you love someone and hate their guts at the same time?

Answer: When they're STUPID!

The Dark Lord is amazing. Not only is he the most powerful man in the world, but he's also the only man I know who makes bald look badass, red eyes dreamy, and a falsetto sexy. When put next to _him, _Rodolphus looks like a poodle next to a Great Dane, a chocolate chip cookie beside a giant hot fudge sundae. But sometimes, he'll do things that make about as much sense as Mudbloods in Slytherin. Like what he told us today.

I should have seen it coming--he's had a vendetta against the Potters for weeks. And since Severus told him about the prophecy...well, it only makes sense that the Dark Lord would want to kill their son himself. Unless, of course, you take into account my proposal; then it makes no sense at all.

I draw a deep breath, trying to reign in my anger, and touch quill to parchment.

_My Lord, _

_May I very respectfully ask what is wrong with you?_

Not too bad, I think. Respectful yet firm.

_Seriously, did you even HEAR what I told you? I know that whatever method you choose to rid the world of Harry Potter will be quick and effective, but there's bound to be a problem with it. _

That sounds so rude! I start to cross it out, then think of a way to fix it.

_Not with the execution, of course (no pun intended), but there's only so much fun you can have with a Killing Curse. Cruciatus is far more amusing (as you likely recall from the Christmas party) and when combined with those I told you about, you'll have a miniature party on your hands! Now the Potters are dead and you're twice as happy as you would have been had you used a boring old Killing Curse. _

I smile at the thought.

_Also, I know you said no to my other request--the one involving a little something called matrimony--but has it ever occurred to you that we're essentially breaking the law every day? Why bother adhering to the anti-polygamy laws if we're going to break ones involving Unforgiveables? You have to put things in perspective, my lord. _

Never mind that Rodolphus is an idiot.

_Thank you so much for your time, _

_Bellatrix Lestrange _

_PS: I hate you. _

I draw in a breath, then stop myself before I cross that out. Maybe if he thinks I hate him, he'll rethink his decision.

* * *


	10. Percival Weasley

_Okay....I was going to write some more in the Marauder Era, but I just realized....most of the people in ME who would write notes to Voldemort died before they realized how much they hated him. And when you're dead, you can't write notes (unless, of course, you're a zombie--in which case you don't really have a functional brain and therefore can't write a coherent note to the person who killed you). So I'm going to jump ahead to the end of second year, after Harry's battle with Tom Riddle and the Basilisk (hmm...nice band name, that) in the Chamber of Secrets. _

* * *

Words rarely fail me. I have always been the first student to finish an essay, and I often recieved the highest score in the class. Even when Fred and George put a snake in my bed or a mouse in my robes, I always find just the words to get them in trouble with Mum.

Not today. After what happened to Ginny, I find it hard to speak. The details she recounted circle my mind like vultures, and the quill trembles in my hand. Not with fear--no, the terror is over--but rage.

I draw a few quick breaths. My hand steadies enough to pen the introduction:

_Dear Tom Riddle aka_

I cross out the _aka. _I cannot bring myself to write his other name, no matter how hard I try.

_What in Merlin's name made you think possessing and killing an eleven-year-old girl was acceptable in any sense of the word? _

Words come to mind more quickly than I can write them. If I think of Tom Riddle not as You-Know-Who and instead as a boy my age, it's easier to rant and rave. I can yell at a sixteen-year-old Slytherin. I can't yell at You-Know-Who.

_I don't know what issues you have, but I can see they must be pretty severe--especially since the girl in question happens to be my only sister. _

My only sister almost died. If I could find him now....

_If I could find you now, I would grab you by the collar, wrap my hands around your spindly neck, and choke you until your muddy brown eyes popped out of your skull. Fortunately for you and unfortunately for me, Harry Potter drove a basilisk fang through that terrible diary. I only wish I had been the one to do it. _

Tom Riddle's eyes bulging from his skull....what a wonderful thought.

_In case you didn't get the memo, you're DEAD--or, at the very least, defeated. Harry Potter defeated you as an infant, just as he did today. And in our world, dead people don't get a second chance. _

Not that he's worthy to be called a person. No, he relinquished his humanity long ago, after he committed his first murder and never looked back.

_You've had your chance at life, and you've failed miserably in every sense of the word. So stop trying to return so you can fail again and bring more innocent girls down with you. _

_Leave my sister alone, or so help me I will castrate you with a stapler and hack you to pieces with a knitting needle. How is that even possible? YOU DON'T WANT TO KNOW! _

_Die and stay dead,_

_Percival Weasley _

And now, in case he was too dim to get the point of my note....

_P.S.: I hate you. _

* * *


	11. Molly Weasley

* * *

Never in recent memory has the Weasley family been so angry.

Not that we never get upset. I remember one summer where the twins thought it would be funny if I tripped halfway out the back door and they caught the salad before it hit the ground. Arthur yelled at them for using magic illegally; I yelled at them for everything else they did. Percy's getting mad at one of his younger siblings for one reason or another is as much a Christmas tradition as the tree or an all-out snowball fight.

Today, however, is different. No one is being yelled at, and even the twins are furious--not at Ron or Ginny or even Percy, but at a certain someone named Tom Riddle.

I can hardly control my rage. Whenever that name so much as flickers through my mind, I want to grab the nearest object and hurl it across the room. To avoid broken windows and heavy fines for destruction of public property, I sit here, quill in hand, trying to organize my thoughts. But shaping pure rage into a coherent sentence is like cooking a meal from two onions, flour, garlic and chicken--not impossible, but you'll probably be crying by the time it's over.

_To the spoiled, self-indulgent brat known as Tom Riddle, _

_Hello, Molly Weasley here. Remember me? _

I know he doesn't. He's the spoiled, self-indulgent brat who eventually become You-Know-Who, according to Harry and Dumbledore. But he will, soon enough.

_You probably don't. But believe me, you will by the time you've finished reading this. I'll make sure of it. _

_Remember that girl you terrorized for almost a year? The one you tried to murder today? That's my daughter. _

Rage and fear and relief that Ginny is safe bring tears to my eyes. I push them back for now.

_I know you don't care. You didn't care about Fabian and Gideon, did you? No, you just had your cronies kill them and leave their bodies for us to find the next morning. _

I draw a sharp breath as the memory brings a knot to my throat. After all these years I thought the grief had dulled, but I guess today's events changed all that.

_When you killed them, I was upset. I cried, like I did today when Ginny was found. But I was also mad--mad enough to kill whoever killed them. That fury was nothing compared to how I feel today. _

_Killing my brothers was bad enough. Trying to murder my daughter is beyond the pale. _

My teeth clench, and I press so hard the quill tears through the parchment. Drops of ink splatter the desk. I curse under my breath and move onto the threats.

_If I so much as see your face again--either one of them--I will tear it from your skull with my bare hands. Whatever I happen to be holding will become the thing that kills you. If it's my wand, it will be a deadly and painful curse; if it's a book, it will be a crushed skull; if it's a fork, it will be multiple stab wounds with a four-pronged object. If it's a tube of toothpaste, I will blind you with the toothpaste and slit your throat with the sharp end of the tube. _

I reread that and frown. Is that even possible?

Of course it is. When You-Know-Who just tried to kill your only daughter, anything is possible. I'll make sure of it.

_If and when I see you again, you had better hope and pray that I'm holding something that kills quickly, or your last few moments will be the worst of your life. _

A smile touches my lips, unbidden. Yay puns.

_Leave my kids alone, you son of a bitch._

_Molly Weasley _

_P.S.: I hate you. _

I retrace the postscript, tearing the parchment again. I touch my cheek and feel tears.

I fold the note. The next time I see that bastard, he'll be doing more than crying.

* * *


	12. Dobby

* * *

_And with those two hate notes, we move on to fourth year. I plan on doing Amos Diggory, Cho Chang, and probably a few others, but for now I thought a certain house-elf should have his say. _

* * *

Dobby has never been a good writer.

Yes, of course Dobby knows how to write. Dobby's old masters required it of him, and Dobby even learned how to forge Master Malfoy's signature when Mistress Malfoy made him learn how. But when the time comes for Dobby to make words sound nice together--_that _is something Dobby isn't good at.

But right now, Dobby doesn't care if his words sound nice. After what happened to Harry Potter, Dobby wants his words to sound mean--meaner than the Dark Lord's, if anyone can do that. Dobby dips a quill in ink, trying hard to keep his hand from shaking, then writes.

_Dear Mr. Dark Lord, _

Dobby crosses out the Mr., then the Dark Lord. Since none of the Dark Lord's other names seem to fit right now, Dobby racks his brain for just the right word. He finds it in the words Master Malfoy uses when he talks about the Order.

_You Bastard, _

There. Dobby thinks that fits.

_Yes, Dobby knows who you are. Dobby knows everything. _

No, Dobby doesn't know _everything, _but Dobby does know it's best to let someone you hate _think_ you know everything.

_Dobby especially knows what happened to Harry Potter. He knows it was the Dark Lord that did it. What Dobby doesn't know is why. _

_Why would anyone want to hurt Harry Potter? All Harry Potter does is be nice to everyone, and people like the Malfoys and the Dark Lord want to kill him._

Dobby sucks in his breath. Every time Dobby thinks of Harry Potter, lying in the hospital wing, too scared to sleep without his potion, Dobby wants to scream.

_Master Malfoy used to say that people who don't know their own business don't deserve to be left alone. _

Dobby can almost hear Master Malfoy say that. Dobby almost crosses it out, but leaves it there.

_Well, Dobby says that people who can't see who is good and who is bad don't deserve to be left alone, either. _

_The Dark Lord might think he has no reason to be scared of Dobby. Maybe when Dobby was a slave, but Dobby is a free elf now, and a free elf can jump onto the Dark Lord's shoulder, reach down his throat, tear his heart out, and stomp it to a worthless pulp right before his very eyes. _

Dobby didn't know he felt so violent today.

_And the next time Dobby sees the Dark Lord, that is exactly what will happen to him. So if the Dark Lord likes his heart the way it is, he had better stay away from Harry Potter. _

_Your enemy, _

_Dobby _

Dobby can't stop himself from adding a little more.

_P.S.: Dobby hates you. _

* * *


	13. Amos Diggory

* * *

They say writing a letter to someone who wronged you is the first step to forgiveness. I've heard the story--woman's son is murdered, she stays angry for a few years, eventually realizes her son's murderer was a troubled man with a terrible past who just wanted to keep his puppy safe, and sends him a letter that he can barely read through his tears of remorse.

I hate that book.

I read it when I was eighteen and found it moving. I read it again when Cedric was five--the same age as the boy in the novel--and cried for days. Today, I skimmed a few paragraphs and set the book on fire. Nobody ever acts like that. Nobody ever forgives their son's murderer because the murderer is never sorry.

So here I sit, nearly three weeks after Cedric's death, knowing beyond a shadow of a doubt that any note I write to the so-called Dark Lord will involve anything but forgiveness. He doesn't deserve it. Even if he did, I could never give it to him.

Still, Leah seems to think it'll help if I get some of my thoughts down on paper. "It's always helped me," she said, and I know she's right. I dip my quill in ink.

_To the heartless bastard who killed my son, _

I've called him what he is; now what? Pouring pure rage onto parchment should be easy. At night I cry with it and during the day I tremble with it, but putting it into words is difficult.

_I don't know if you read the same awful book I did_

He probably used it as an instruction manual.

_but you know as well as I do that it's wrong. A murderer feeling remorse for anything he did? Ridiculous. A father forgiving the man who killed his son? Garbage. _

_They say people who don't have children can't understand the pain of those who do--and I know you can't understand anything but the sadistic thoughts running through your head. But I'm sure you can understand this_: If and when I see your face again, I will kill you the same way you killed Cedric.

_"Kill the spare." That's all Cedric was to you? _

Tears fall on the parchment, smearing the ink. I cried when Harry recounted it, and I cry recounting it now. I press the back of my hand against my eyes in an effort to hold them back, but they fall regardless.

_I don't know what I'll do to you when I see you again--which is why you should fear it all the more. Drowning in sewage? Suffocating in garbage? Decapitation by flying into an iron bar that somehow managed to appear in the middle of the sky? All excellent ideas._

I draw a deep breath. Threatening him is like numbing a wound--the pain is lessened, but the wound isn't healed. I don't know if it ever will be.

_The next time you see me....well, you won't see me. You'll be dead before you can blink. _

_Die soon, go broke, and rot in hell, _

_Amos Diggory _

And now, to state the obvious:

_P.S.: I hate you. _


	14. Cho Chang

* * *

_Sorry I haven't updated many of my HP stories lately. My plot bunnies for those are currently on vacation, and I think they may have gone to Mars instead of somewhere I can actually find them. Anyways, I've started writing several stories for _Static Shock, _one of THE best animated shows ever (which, unfortunately, was cancelled in 2004 while_ SpongeBob SquarePants _continues to rule the animated airwaves. Yeah. Unfair much?) That was also totally not a shameless plug for both the show and my stories about it. :P (They're showing reruns on Disney XD. Watch it. Now.) _

_

* * *

_

Boys and girls have different ideas about what qualifies as a happy ending.

For most boys, their idea of a happy ending involves a champion fighter, an underdog, a pretty girl, lots of rippling muscle and an outcome that nobody but the audience expects.

For girls, a happy ending involves a good man, a good woman, a lifetime of love and devotion. When death comes, they're both _very_ old and it takes them at the same time. There's no evil wizard. No bait-and-switch. No mysterious ceremony.

The boy doesn't die at seventeen.

I don't want to think about Cedric. When I think about Cedric, I can't remember his life, his cute dimpled grin, his passion for justice. Maybe because his death involved no justice at all. It wasn't even an accident. Just cruelty, malice and a man who doesn't know when to die.

Still, I can't stop thinking about him. When I stop thinking about him, I feel blank, like Hogwarts might if you removed all the furniture. Empty.

His murderer deserves to feel the same way I do--though I doubt he feels much anymore.

_You selfish, immoral bastard, _

Sorrow turns to anger so quickly I can't wonder why. I write furiously.

_I won't ask why you killed Cedric. If I were to come up with a reason, it would be simple: You're an asshole. If you were to give me a reason, I'm sure it would be the same one. _

The fact that he knows he's an asshole doesn't make me feel any better. Maybe if he felt bad about it....but no.

_You didn't have to kill him, you know. You could've let him go merrily on his way and everything would've been okay. He could have come back to Hogwarts, played Quidditch, finished out the year...._

Tears blur my vision and smear the ink. Cedric wouldn't have returned. He would've stayed until You-Know-Who was gone and Harry had a fighting chance at safety.

_But you couldn't risk that, could you? You couldn't risk someone with morals hanging around and spoiling your little plan, so you had to kill him before he had a chance to thwart it. _

_You should have let him. _

_I know that doesn't exactly fit in with your master plan--whatever that is--but here's some news for you: _Nobody cares. _If life was fair, Cedric would still be here and you'd be six feet under, probably chopped in little pieces. _

That mental image doesn't exactly make me smile, but it does make me feel a little better.

_The world doesn't need you. It needs Cedric and people like him. _

_Then again, you've never been good at guessing what people need, have you? If you were, you would've hanged yourself years ago. _

_Die slow and burn in hell, _

_Cho Chang _

The next line seems obvious, but I write it anyway.

_P.S.: I hate you. _


	15. Petunia Dursley

I've heard Harry called by many names, many of them given to him by my little Dudders. Not all of them were nice, but boys will be boys, you know. I've heard the wizards here in Britain call him the Boy Who Lived. Me? I call him the Brat Who Brought Us Nothing But Trouble.

A little long, but it's true, isn't it? From that first horrible day he showed up on our doorstep with that awful scar on his forehead, he's been nothing but a disruptive influence on our household. What else do you call a boy who shrinks perfectly good sweaters and climbs on the roof of a school to get his cousin in trouble? Unfortunately, all that pales in comparison to what he's done this time.

In the past, Harry was quiet. Disruptive but quiet, if that makes any sense to you. Sneaky. Slippery and stealthy. If he had a problem he'd just stew about it. But now, he's become a whiner. 'Aunt Petunia, I can't sleep.' 'Sorry I woke you, Aunt Petunia, but I've had another dream.' 'So sorry I can't pay attention to a word you say, but I keep hearing the voice of that man who murdered Cedric Whatshisname in my head, and what he has to say is so much more important than whatever you're trying to tell me.'

I reach into my desk and pull out a piece of my best stationery.

I put it back. He doesn't deserve stationery. I yank a piece of paper out of my old notebook instead. I smile at the ragged edges. Perfect.

_Hey You, _

Mother told me to never use that as a greeting; well, what about for rabble-rousers who deserve it? I'm sure she'd let me make an exception.

_Yes, you who keep Harry Potter awake at night. You who keep him tired during the day so he can't listen to anything anyone tells him. You who have turned him into an obnoxious little brat. I want you to STOP! _

_When Harry wakes up in the middle of the night, he's not quiet about it. Oh, no. He shouts and screams and wakes all of creation before drifting back to sleep. And by then we're all awake too. When he wakes up again, we're asleep, and on and on it goes until no one can get a moment's peace. I'm sick of it! Not only am I tired, but Vernon is exhausted and poor Dudders can't seem to sleep a wink! It's his only time at home until he finishes his schooling, and you're causing Harry to turn it into a living nightmare! _

_When you bother Harry, you bother us. When you bother us...well, there will be consequences. I don't care if you have magic. I can call the police, you know. To them, you're nothing more than an overgrown hooligan who can't keep his mouth shut. Well, just you wait! They'll shut it for you, and you can take that to the bank! _

_Shut up, _

_Petunia Dursley _

I fold it neatly and put it in an envelope, then take it out again.

_P.S.: I hate you. _

I put it in the envelope and seal it. Well. If that last bit didn't get the point across, I don't know what will.

* * *

_Is there anyone during this particular time period I'm missing? Tell me if I am! _


	16. Ginny Weasley

I heard a Muggle saying the other day: "Hindsight is always 20/20." Apparently, Muggles measure vision in numbers, and perfect vision is 20/20, so what that Muggle meant is that everything in the past is perfectly clear. You can always see what you should have done after your opportunity has passed.

Isn't that the truth.

You-Know-Who has been gaining power. The Ministry denies it, but right now that's like saying the sky is green or that Umbridge could be an underwear model. Someday, they'll look back with the perfect vision hindsight affords and wonder why they didn't see it coming. By then, Harry will probably be the successful Auror who looks them in the eye and says without a hint of humor "Because you were morons. Now get back to work."

Anyway, as You-Know-Who has gained power, I've thought about the Diary quite a bit. When I think of it, it's always capitalized--Diary, not diary. Something that wicked deserves a name of its own--and a piece of my mind. Mind, not soul; Riddle tried to take that already, but I was too young and naive to think about giving him a piece of my mind.

Now he's not so lucky.

The Diary is gone now, thank Merlin. But its voice lives on. In my nightmares, Riddle scribbles threats all over my homework, though I never see him; only his words. Today, if he ever gets the chance to read them, he will see mine. I dip my quill in ink and summon all the helpless rage I've felt over the past three years.

_You slimy, selfish, insufferable little bastard, _

Hm, not bad. I'm certainly on the right track.

_Yes, I'm talking to you, Tom Riddle. Or do you prefer Lord V--_

I cross the last part out. No way I'm writing his other name. Maybe I'll work up the courage to say it one of these days, but today is not that day.

_It's me, Ginny Weasley. The girl you tried to murder three years ago? Yes, I'm still alive. And no, I don't want you to be. _

_I know you don't think much of blood traitors. Well, guess what? We don't think much of you. To us, you're just a big, pale bald guy with no nose and eyes that look like you've stabbed the centers and they're still bleeding. Scary? Maybe--if they didn't make you look like you didn't know how to operate a quill and kept stabbing yourself in the eye. _

I hate to admit it, but Tom wasn't lying when he said I might survive in Slytherin. My insults are certainly up to par.

_Too bad. You weren't completely unfortunate-looking when you were younger. What happened? Did you get into a barfight where someone sliced off your nose? Or did you decide that noses were for Muggles and cut it off yourself? _

The thought of Tom--or better yet, some unwitting Muggle--cutting his nose off makes me giggle.

_I may be a fragile little girl, but be warned, Mister: I have six brothers. Two are the reigning Hogwarts pranksters, feared and loathed by most of the staff. One raises dragons. Another is best friends with Harry Potter, the boy who destroyed you when he was just an infant. Not only that, but my mum will hack off some of your, shall we say, other body parts if she ever gets close enough. _

_Not only that, but I'm stronger now. You may be laughing your head off at that, but by the time you read this note, I'll probably be standing behind you, waiting for you to look up so I can fire the curse that ends your life. _

Mum always told me that killing isn't--and shouldn't be--something to take pleasure in. But surely there's an exception for mass murderers.

_Don't mess with little girls, Moldy-Shorts. We bite back. _

_Enjoy the rest of your life. You don't have much left. _

_Ginny Weasley _

_P.S.: I hate you _

With a satisfied smile, I fold the note.


	17. Dolores Umbridge

_I think my Harry Potter plot bunny is starting to return! _

_And yes, I am taking a few liberties with Umbridge's motives; I'm mostly taking what Harry saw of her office and actions in Book 7 and running with it. _

_

* * *

_

I unfurl the parchment, set it on my desk and reach across for an inkwell. When I turn back, the parchment has curled up again.

I push it back into place, but it slides down again.

I huff angrily. Even the parchment won't cooperate with me!

Seizing the inkwell, I slam it onto one corner of the parchment, scattering drops of ink everywhere. What else can go wrong?

I crumple the page and toss it into the fireplace, grab a fresh roll of parchment and spread it out on the desk. I set an inkwell in one corner and a paperweight in the other, lower myself into my chair, and dip my quill in ink.

_To the One Commonly Known as "The Dark Lord": _

_Hello, Mr. Dark Lord. While I surely don't know you, I must operate under the presumption that you know me. I do, after all, hold the prestigious title of Hogwarts Defense Against the Dark Arts Professor. _

A most excellent beginning. I'm certain he knows _of_ me, even if he does not know me personally.

Although...perhaps I should give him my name.

_My name is Dolores Umbridge, and I write to you concerning a most pressing matter. This matter's name is_

I clench my teeth. His very name churns my blood like a cauldron over a fire.

_Harry Potter. _

The self-righteous little ingrate.

_Since we both know him (unfortunately), I shall dispense with his introduction and skip to my request: Cease and desist showing yourself to him. _

_Do not pretend for one moment that you remain hidden from the boy who escaped you. It is far too obvious to anyone who knows what to look for. The signs of Dark influence on one familiar with but frightened of their effects are written all over his face. They drench the essays he writes. They cause his fingers to tap throughout my lessons and embolden him to incite his fellow students. I don't know what he's doing after classes, but I know it cannot be in line with my rules. _

_Power is a beautiful thing, and there is certainly no law against flaunting it. But the flaunting must be done artfully and carefully, or the very power you lord over others shall bite you in the backside, so to speak. I have been careful. You have not. _

I don't know what he thinks he's doing. I know he's the most powerful wizard alive, and perhaps the most powerful who ever lived, but the smartest? His actions say otherwise.

_What do you hope to accomplish? Do you _want_ young Potter to become an unstoppable force against you? Do you lie in bed at night, wishing for your influence on him would cause him to raise up an army of Mudbloods to murder us all in our sleep? _

_Stop being a moron! Subtlety is power. Do you think you are making my job any easier by tormenting Potter? How am I to convince my students that you did not show yourself last spring if Potter continues to see you? _

_I await your action, and hope it hastens the day when there will be peace in my classroom once more. _

_Yours, _

_Dolores Umbridge _

The next words seem to leap from my quill before I can stop them.

_P.S.: I hate you. _


	18. Fred and George Weasley

_Sorry this hasn't been updated in a while, folks. Please enjoy this latest installment...from good ol' Gred and Forge. _

_

* * *

_Half-orphans. That's what we almost were.

Everyone says so, and they aren't wrong. Death came for him, and missed him by an inch or so. If we had been there, we would've kicked him in the you-know-where. Death, I mean. You didn't think we were talking about Dad, did you?

But we weren't there. Harry was, in spirit, I guess, and that's what kept the snake from taking his life.

Oh, if Fred and I had been there...

"You write it," Fred says, pushing the quill and ink closer. "I'll come up with the insults."

"You _always_ come up with the insults, Fred."

"Your handwriting is better." He grins. It'll be better this way. It always is. He'll dictate, and I'll improve on his content.

"Dear Lord Moldy-Shorts," he begins.

_Dear He-Whose-Shorts-Have-Yet-To-Be-Washed, _

"We are writing to inform you of an event..."

_We are writing to inform you of an event_

"...which is cause for our concern."

_which has caused great constir-conster-_

"Fred, how do you spell 'consternation'?"

Fred frowns. "Why on earth would you want to use that word?"

"Because it sounds fancy. You-Know-Who can't even spell it, probably."

He considers my logic for a moment. "I think it has an E."

_which has caused great consternation among a certain family of gingers. And since we both know gingers have no souls, there is little preventing us from taking your head and using it as a hideous, noseless projectile. _

Fred reads over my shoulder, then laughs. "Nice." He straightens, and resumes pacing. "We know something of Muggle warfare."

_We are experts in Muggle warfare. _

"We're not experts."

"We could be, if we wanted to. Hermione would gladly loan us the books."

"Would she read them to us?"

I shake my head. "Probably not."

"Then I'm not interested. Muggles use things called cannons to fire things called cannonballs. Your head is just the right size."

_You've heard of the cannonball, I presume? Muggles fire them out of cannons. Wouldn't it be shock to have your terrible head fly through the air- right into your headless lap?_

Again, Fred reads over my shoulder. "Or the lap of one of your followers? Bellatrix Lestrange, perhaps?"

_Or the lap of one of your followers? Like your lap dog, Lucius? Or your ugly whore, Bellatrix Lestrange? _

"She might scream. Or she might display it prominently."

_She might scream. Or she might wear it around her neck like a necklace. _

Fred blinks. "How would she hold her head up?"

I shrug. "How does she hold it up anyway?"

"Good point." He clears his throat. "You do not fear us, Lord Bitcheson. This is a tremendous oversight on your part."

_You do not fear us, Lord Bitcheson. Perhaps you should. Or perhaps you should go on NOT fearing us. We prefer it that way. _

"Yours, the Nightmare Weasleys."

_Yours, _

_The Nightmare Weasleys _

_aka Gred and Forge_

Fred reads the note. "It needs something more, don't you think?"

I consider that, then write at the bottom:

_P.S.: We hate you _

He smiles. "Perfect."


	19. Remus Lupin

_Remus Lupin is, I think, my favorite character in the series. So here's hoping I got his letter right. :) _

* * *

I am a pacifist.

Blame it on my background, if you wish. Receiving a werewolf bite at the age of five and spending the majority of your childhood under its stigma would be enough to transform some into a big, furry ball of rage. For others, it will cause them to withdraw, soften, lower strategic defenses. They become quiet, frightened- not only of themselves, but of humanity as a whole, that mob of people waiting to expose their secret and pick at the wound until they bleed to death.

I suppose it's pretty obvious which category I fall into.

Many werewolves do not approve of killing, believe it or not. (Most people don't believe it.) It's counterintuitive at best, downright stupid at worst. Murder not only splits the soul in two, it causes the destruction of something truly irreplaceable. Each human life is so unique that the idea of taking one- or worse, ruining one by way of the full moon- turns my stomach.

But sometimes, a little destruction can actually benefit mankind.

My hands have stopped shaking now. I was almost surprised when they did. They shook for days after James and Lily were killed, and hours after Sirius and I confronted Peter. I will myself to not think of that. I need to be able to hold a quill.

I ponder the greeting for only a moment before it comes, sharp and clear, as though James or Sirius is guiding my hand.

_To the Supreme Lord of the Assholes, _

I suck on my quill. Now what?

_Chances are good you don't know me. I don't blame you, as I'm not much of anyone. _

I can almost hear Sirius' protests: "Oh, come off it, Moony. Stop beating up on yourself. You're more of a someone than our dear friend Snape."

_Perhaps it's better that way. After all, an attack from an unexpected source is an attack to be feared._

Now James joins in: "If anyone should be feared, it's you, Moony."

_Should I be feared? Yes, I should. _

_You probably don't remember. I wouldn't be surprised if you didn't know what Greyback did to me, years and years ago. Once again, I believe this works in my favor._

I have never been good at threats, but helpless rage chokes my fear. My quill is too slow to keep up with my thoughts.

_Peter, James and Sirius weren't my friends. They were my brothers. You can say that's simply because I'd never had friends before and would love anyone who smiled at me more than once, but I know that isn't the case. They were my family. _

_When James died, I lost a brother. When Peter betrayed us, I lost two brothers: one to Azkaban, while the other was disowned- though the particulars of that situation would take time to be sorted out. _

Two years later, the revelation still leaves a bitter taste in my mouth.

_You killed my brothers. James is gone, Peter is dead to me, and now you've taken Sirius as well. _

I plunge ahead, swatting impatiently at my tears.

_Little did you know, you left the most dangerous one alive. _

_Werewolves are tricky creatures; I'm sure you know it by now. Our loyalty does not come easily, but when it is obtained, the enemies of our friends become less than our enemies. They become our snacks. _

I grimace at that last line, wishing I had some butterbeer to settle my stomach. Just the thought of eating You-Know-Who makes me queasy.

_A werewolf is a fearsome sight. A werewolf you can't control is a vision from Hell. And guess what? The full moon is coming up. _

In exactly ten days, according to my calendar. I make a face.

_You'll taste terrible, but you'll still taste like victory._

There. Here's hoping he'll heed my threat.

_Not yours, _

_Remus Lupin _

I write the postscript quickly, as though I'd meant to do it all along.

_P.S.: I hate you _

As I fold the note, I can hear Sirius' voice, as clear as though he stands next to me.

"Hey, with a little ketchup, he might not taste too bad."


	20. Fenrir Greyback

_Before you start reading, I feel compelled to warn you: This will probably end up being the most disturbing hate note. I did my best to keep Fenny Dear in character, and...well...yeah. So consider yourselves warned. TwiLyght Sans Sparkles cannot be held liable for any mental scarring, vomiting, eye twitching, or "CANNOT UNSEE!" moments that may come as a result of this chapter. _

* * *

I am not a cannibal. I am a connoisseur of human flesh. There is a difference. Of course, there is also a number of small-minded people who don't see it. But the difference is there, and the difference is me.

You want it in more words? Okay, here it is: A cannibal eats anyone, anytime, anywhere. I am not exactly picky about who I eat, but I do take time to separate the wheat from the chaff (so to speak) and to appreciate the delectable taste of a well-raised toddler.

Of course, I don't limit myself to toddlers. Adults just aren't as tender—and when they are, they're often morbidly obese. However, there are times when a full-grown human promises to be just as tasty as a young one.

This is one of those times.

Not that to Dark Lord sees this. Oh, no. He wouldn't know a tasty meal if it bit him on the leg. Or, in this case, agreed to take the Mark.

I dip my quill in ink but don't wait for the words to arrive; I just begin writing.

_My lord_

Not a bad beginning, I think. But it's missing something.

_aka He-Who-Does-NOT-Devour-Tasty-Human-Flesh, _

That's better.

_I will pretend that I am not deeply offended at your generous offer to one Draco Malfoy_

I lick my lips. I can't help it.

_and use this letter to state my concerns. _

He likes it when you get to the point, I think.

_For years, I have faithfully served you as the standard threat for parents of small children who stand in your way. Not that I'm complaining, mind you; I don't mind at all that in nearly twenty years you've never so much as HINTED at offering me the Mark, and now you're giving it to a stupid boy whose father has failed you time and time again. _

Don't go overboard with the rage, Fenny. Just keep it simple.

_ANYWAY. I'm not completely sure what your plan is—not that I NEED to know, of course—but I would like to offer you an alternative. You want to make Lucius pay? _

Time to state the obvious.

_Let me eat his son! _

It's such a good plan, I don't know why he hasn't thought of it yet.

_"But he's not a toddler," you say. "Don't you like toddlers best?" Well, yes, I do. But there's no reason why a sixteen-year-old can't be as tasty as a six-year-old. Especially when that sixteen-year-old plays Quidditch. The athletic types are often delicious, and Seekers are the best: nice and lean, low in cholesterol, with just enough meat on their bones to make hunting them worthwhile. _

Mmmmm...

_Think about it, my lord. I'm sure you'll come to the same conclusion I have. _

_Regards, _

_Fenrir Greyback _

Draco Malfoy...so tasty...so out of reach...

_P.S.: I hate you. _

I start to fold the note, then stop, take out another piece of parchment. I need to rewrite this note on a fresh sheet.

This one is covered in drool.

* * *

_Again, sorry for any nausea this chapter may have caused..._

_On the other hand, if anyone were to write a story where Draco is actually attacked by Greyback and survives, I'd gladly read it. (The idea struck me as I was planning this chapter, but I don't know if I could carry the idea, so if anyone else would try, I'd be all for it!) _


	21. Draco Malfoy

Have you ever wished you had a split personality?

I haven't. Not before, anyway, and to be perfectly honest, the thought never even crossed my mind. That's the sort of thing a crazy person would wish for.

As if I didn't need more proof that I'm completely mental.

I think it'd be nice to have a split personality. You'd always have someone to talk to—someone who understood you completely and kept the judging to a minimum because, since they're a part of your own personality, they're a part of you, so they can't exactly be judgmental. Yes, a split personality is just what I need right now.

Damn. I'm doing it again, aren't I?

Shaking my head, I pick up the quill and stare at it. Maybe it will start talking to me? No, that's ridiculous—quills can't talk. At the very least, they shouldn't.

I've _got_ to start writing before I lose it.

_My lord, _

The words mock me. That monster, that horrible man with no nose and a tiny head that I dare not make fun of, is my master. And he hasn't let me forget it.

_Why? _

I could just leave it at that, I think. It sums up everything nicely. Still, I remind myself he'll never read this and press ahead.

_Perhaps I should back up a bit and explain that question with a few facts-facts that seem to have escaped your notice. _

He's perfectly aware of the facts, I'm sure, but believing he isn't makes all this easier to swallow.

_First of all, I'm sixteen. SIXTEEN. Since you've obviously forgotten your numbers, let me remind you that sixteen is not a very large one. Sixteen Sickles wouldn't buy you an ounce of dragon's liver, so how in blazes can you think a sixteen-year-old can kill Dumbledore? _

That sentence makes no sense. Then again, I _am_ losing my mind.

_I can do almost anything else you want. Need someone to lead an air strike from the back of a Nimbus? You've got it. Someone with a knack for breaking codes? I can do that. A rather good-looking teenager to recruit good-looking teenage girls? I'm your man. But killing Dumbledore? Are you SERIOUS? _

He is. He's made that much painfully clear.

_I heard an American phrase recently—"off your rocker." It does not apply to you. You, my lord, are not merely off your rocker; you have managed to leap from your rocker, smash it to bits on the porch, and then cha-cha your way across the yard where you fell into a well, singing "A Cauldron Full of Hot, Strong Love" on the way down. _

If only, if only.

_I'll put it plainly, my lord. I. CAN'T. DO. IT. So find someone else to kill Dumbledore or _

Hm. Hadn't gotten that far.

_or _

I need a threat. A really, really good one.

_or I'll kidnap Harry Potter! _

I laugh. How did I not think of it before?

_Yes, I will kidnap him and take him somewhere you will never, ever find him. _

Japan, maybe? Or Mexico. I know enough Spanish to get by—namely, the word for "bathroom."

_Here's hoping you get eaten alive by your own pancakes, _

What a lovely thought.

_Draco Malfoy _

_P.S.: I hate you. I hate you so much. _


	22. Romilda Vane

_DO NOT ask me where I got the idea for this chapter. It hit me out of nowhere, and I have no desire to visit the dark corner of my mind that it probably came from. _

_On that note, enjoy! _

* * *

Harry Potter is not handsome.

Close your mouth, dearie. You look like a fish.

As I was saying, Harry Potter is not handsome. Nor is he cute, attractive, or heartbreakingly sexy. No, those words are not majestic, not sweeping, not glorious enough to convey the pure masculine beauty that is Harry James Potter. If he were a chocolate bar, I would devour him in one gulp. If he were a puppy, I would scoop him up immediately and take him home (after I had massive heart failure from pure joy, that is). If he were a werewolf, I would gladly let him bite me just so I could share one more thing with him. I don't need a love potion around him. He _is _my love potion.

And as of right now, he's too wrapped up in thoughts of another to notice me.

My hatred for this other burns through my fear of writing him. It's righteous anger, of course; this man is out to kill the one I love! He should burn in hell for that alone.

Excellent place to start, I think.

_To the Man Who Should Burn in Hell, _

I cross that out. Too formal. You-Know-Who doesn't deserve formal.

_You Bastard, _

I hesitate, quill hovering above my parchment. Words war with one another, vying for position, and I don't know which to put on paper first.

_Yes, I called you that. You might ask how a simple underage witch can say such things and have a clear conscience, but I can. I am simply calling you what you are. _

_Thoughts of you consume Harry's mind. Everything he says- even to that whore, Ginny Weasley- has to do with you. "I can't go with you, guys. You-Know-Who_

I stop again. Should I cross that out? Harry doesn't say 'You-Know-Who.' He calls the man by name. I can't censor Harry like that.

Giving in to a whim, I cross out 'You-Know-Who.'

_Voldemort _

The name looks even more menacing than it sounds, but I plunge ahead regardless.

_is planning something." "Can't study right now; Voldemort is after me." "Sorry I can't talk to you, Romilda, but I have to learn more about Voldemort." _

Granted, he's never actually _said_ any of those things, but I can tell he means them.

_My God! He's only sixteen and you're trying to kill him? _

_Well, I'm sick of it. I'm sick of you wasting so much of dear Harry's time and energy when he should be contemplating his future. _

With me, naturally. Is there any other for him?

_You might say I have no right to threaten you. I am, after all, only a simple little witch in a House you despise. But bear this in mind: I have concocted a plan to make Harry realize his feelings for me, despite your attempts to keep him occupied. And it will work. _

It has to.

_So leave him alone, or I will turn my superb plotting skills against you. And you, Lord Voldemort, _

I grin. Writing his name is kind of fun.

_will long for oblivion. You will wish you had never been born. You will wish most of your _followers _had never been born, for they will cry big tears into their ice cream when they see what I have done to you! _

_Go away. You'll regret it if you don't. _

_Sincerely, _

_Romilda Vane _

The postscript seems obvious, but I write it anyway.

_P.S.: I hate you. _


	23. Death

_I know I haven't updated this in a while, so I'm going to ease back into the groove of things with a character who appears quite frequently throughout the books, but was never given his own say. _

_Markus Zuzak receives full credit for giving me this idea. I borrow his fabulous characterization of Death from his masterpiece _The Book Thief_ for my own purposes. (So if any of you think I came up with this, you're wrong and should read _The Book Thief._) _

_Background: In April 1997, Harry saw the Montgomery sisters crying in the Hogwarts courtyard. Their brother, five years old, had been killed by Greyback. This is Death's opinion of that event and the man who caused it. _

* * *

Wizards and Muggles are more alike than they care to admit.

There are members of both races, of course, who would agree with this. Arthur Weasley, bless his heart, adores his Muggle brethren. One of his sons could invent a self-spelling wand, and he'd still think a Muggle drain plug was the more fantastic invention. Harry Potter, on the other hand, was always more fascinated by Floo powder than by airplanes.

You humans. So obsessed with the novel you forget the ordinary.

The sky tonight is red. Crimson and white, like Voldemort. Like the discarded body of the child in my arms.

His name was Matthew Montgomery, and he was five. He was small for his age, a tiny creature who loved to run through the tall grass around his home in the English countryside. He and his equally small friends took turns playing the monster who chased the others. He never thought a real monster would end his life.

Matthew is still frightened. His soul clings to my cloak, slender fingers clutching the bright fabric. I chose it for him (he always loved the color yellow) but it is a small comfort. I shift his weight, take a quill and parchment from my pocket, and set them on the ground.

_Dearest Tom, _

_I believe I am one of a handful in existence who dares to use your true name. I use it not to intimidate you, but because I am immune to your threats. I stand beyond your reach, but you remain well within my grasp. _

Matthew watches me write. I feel his innocent eyes follow my hand as it forms symbols he can't yet read.

_Did that frighten you? I am not surprised that it did. If you haven't yet fainted from shock while reading this note, then perhaps I must re-form my opinion of you. Then again, you may not know who this note is from. You never could see what was right in front of your nonexistent nose. _

_You claim not to fear me, Tom. You believe you have defeated me. You have built your fort and made it strong, and your fellow humans believe it impregnable. Locked inside your walls, you are safe from me. That is your lie, is it not? _

If Tom Riddle were kinder, I would be inclined to pity him. His Horcruxes are not the eternal bearers of immortality he believes them to be. They are more like a child's pillow fort erected against a trained soldier. The difference between the child and Tom is simple: The child may pretend his pillow fort can stop the soldier, and the soldier may play along. But deep inside, they both know the truth.

_Humans are strange creatures. You love your little deceptions. Here is one of your favorites, Tom: Death enjoys his job. He loves taking children. Like Greyback,_

I grimace.

_children are his favorite pastime._

_Let me tell you the truth, and perhaps this time you will accept it: I do not enjoy taking children. They are innocent, sweet, and have not yet begun to live—let alone understand me. They are, in nearly every way imaginable, your antithesis. _

_Tonight, and not for the first time, you and Greyback have forced me to do what I do not like. _

This will not be the last time, either. The war has barely begun, and many more will be pushed into my arms before its end.

_I have what you do not, Tom: Immortality. You claim to have it too, but as we have already established, that is simply a clever and dearly bought lie. You have forced others to pay the price for your longing, and you have unwillingly offered your own life as forfeit. For when one human's dream robs others of theirs, someone will always rise up to stop the madness. _

I smile. That's one of my favorite things about you humans—your sense of justice. You never let me have the upper hand for long.

_In your half-life, you have attributed many qualities to me. Greed. Bloodlust. Impatience. Hatred. These are all qualities I do not have; rather, you have drawn them from your own heart and painted them on mine. Unfortunately, my heart is different from yours. Where you would like to see those qualities you despise in yourself, you will find only sorrow. But not for you. _

Matthew stirs. I don't think he likes sitting here on the side of the road, where a few still-living humans have begun to wake, but I've still more to write.

_I have little sympathy for humans whose sympathy for others has run out. You do not need me to tell you that you are one of those humans. You like to flaunt your lack of empathy before your followers, threatening to use me as you would a vicious dog for those who fail to comply. _

Draco Malfoy, for one.

_I will not remain your pet for long, Tom Riddle. Your immortality will fail you one day, and on that day I will be waiting. _

_Your (Needless) Enemy, _

_Death _

And now, for the truth:

_P.S.: I hate you. _

I stand, lifting Matthew in my arms, and drop the note.


	24. The Resurrection Ring

_Thank you, Darth Parallax, for giving me the fantastic idea for this chapter! _

* * *

I hate myself.

How can I do that, you ask? It isn't difficult. Many people hate themselves; they just have the luxury of speaking about it. They can rant and rave, torture themselves and pour out their souls to any sympathetic ear that happens along. I, unfortunately, do not have that luxury.

Why?

Because I have no mouth.

Don't be alarmed. Please. It's been years since someone has heard me; please ignore the voices in your head telling you that you are suffering a psychotic break from reality and listen to me. I need someone to talk to.

I would give you my name, but I have none. I am The Resurrection Ring—or, as Tommy dear calls me, The Ring Horcrux. Before Tommy found me, I was the bell, calling spirits of the dead back for one last visit with their loved ones. Not that the dearly departed were ever _happy _about it. Oh, no. They _hated _coming back to Earth. Spent hours complaining about how dingy everything was, compared to heaven—or, if they went the other way, pissing and moaning about how their son or wife or brother was _tormenting_ them beyond compare, how could they do this, of _course _they had to return to eternal damnation, didn't they know there were rules to follow?

You see what I've had to put up with?

At least that was interesting. Now, I'm just a lonely old ring, sitting in a dusty jewelry box with no one but a few enchanted necklaces for company. They don't speak to me. Good Gandhi, tell them you're a Horcrux and it's all downhill from there!

What? I _like _Gandhi. _He_ wouldn't have stored a piece of his soul inside me, I can tell you that.

The piece of Tom's soul inside the Locket told the piece of soul in me all about Regulus Black. How he stole the true Horcrux and replaced it with a fake one. Locket even saw him write the fake note—and let me tell you, she laughed so long and hard Tommy Boy's soul started swearing at her. Of course, the version that came to me had a more bitter tone than the one I just related, but I got the Tom-tainted version. Had to censor out all of his bits, you know?

I cannot write a note. I wish I could, but I have no hands. But I've written a hundred in my head, and my favorite goes something like this:

_My Dearest Little Tommy Wommy, _

_This is me, your Ring Horcrux. If you're wondering how I can be writing to you, then rest assured I'm wondering the same thing. Awful hard to hold a quill if you don't have hands, isn't it? _

_Before you decided to deposit a bit of your soul in me, I was a happy ring. I spent my days being passed from hand to hand, raising the dead, and causing a rash of suicides wherever I ended up. Not that I'm proud of that, mind you; unlike the piece of your soul, I do not enjoy killing things. _

_Your soul is irritating, Tom, and I've known a few souls in my time. Let me enlighten you: Souls are shaped like the human they animated. When you split your soul through murder—and keep it split with a Horcrux—there's no telling where the soul-piece came from. Well, the one you put in me came from your backside, and unfortunately, it has retained its ability to speak. You can imagine how that goes. _

_I know you probably don't care about me, Tommy. You don't think most of the people you kill have feelings, so why should you care about the emotions of a ring? Well, let me tell you this, Tom: Not everyone who gets their hands on me knows who they'll call up first. Some of them dither for a moment or two while legions of dead faces pass through their minds. I see these parades of dead people. I see them quite clearly. And the next time one of those wonderfully indecisive people happens along, I will not wait for them to decide. I will call up every person they consider, and I will tell them everything you have done. _

_Will they believe me? Yes, they will. They've been raised from the dead! They can believe anything—even a telepathic ring. _

_Until then, enjoy your pathetic little life. It will end very soon. _

_Yours (though I wish it otherwise) _

_The Resurrection Ring _

_P.S.: I hate you. _


	25. Argus Filch

_I changed the format of this one slightly, so it's more like a conversation than just a soliloquy. Hope you like it. :)_

_And I'm not sure if this is what Filch always wanted, but he seemed angry and rather cruel, so I sort of took that ball and ran with it. _

* * *

Deep down, I am not a Squib.

All right, all right, stop laughing.

Now would be nice.

Oh, for Merlin's sake!

Ahem.

Yes, technically, I am a Squib. But only in the sense that I cannot use magic.

Of course that's the definition of a Squib! Shut up about it, will you?

Anyway. Squibs cannot use magic, despite the fact they have two magical parents. That's the _only _thing that separates a Squib from a wizard. Agreed?

You know, I've had quite enough of your cheek. If I were a wizard, by God, I'd Killing Curse you into next Thursday! Yes, of _course_ you'd be dead! You'd be stuck in a lovely Thursday you couldn't even enjoy!

Where was I?

Oh, yes. A wizard can use magic. A Squib cannot. However, unlike Mudbloods (those magic-stealing bastards) a Squib can trace his or her ancestry back several generations at least. Squibs are something Mudbloods will never be: Pureblooded. And where Mudbloods may have a rudimentary understanding of the magic they stole, Squibs understand the wizarding world perfectly. We were raised in it, after all, by generations of pureblooded witches and wizards. Why shouldn't we have an intuitive grasp of its inner workings?

You see? It all makes sense, doesn't it?

_What's the point_? What do you mean, what's the point? I just summed up my entire case!

You don't know what my case is? Oh for the love of….never mind. Since your powers of memory seem lamentable at best, I shall restate my case—nay, my dream—nay, the deepest desire of my heart: Picture _this_ with the Dark Mark on it. Argus Filch, Death Eater. Has a nice ring to it, wouldn't you say?

Oh, shove off! "Argus Filch, Toilet Cleaner Extraordinaire" does not sound better! I've already tried that, thank you very much!

What's that? You're just mocking me now. But say, that's not a bad idea. If you'll kindly leave me alone, I shall follow your advice.

Merlin, that was annoying. Now that I'm alone, I can write in peace. I remove a quill, ink and parchment from my desk, take a seat, and begin to write.

_To the Glorious Dark _

The words vanish as soon as I put them on the page. What the hell?

Dammit. I took the ink from my drawer of confiscated items. If Dumbledore would just let me prevent students from using invisible ink in the first place, this sort of thing wouldn't happen!

I take another bottle, check it carefully, and try again.

_To the Glorious Dark Lord, _

Quite an auspicious start, if I do say so myself.

_It is I, Argus Filch, son of Orion Filch, son of Adrastos Filch, son of….well, I won't bore you with the details, but I'm sure you get the point. I come from a long line of pureblooded wizards, the most recent of whom made certain I knew of your great deeds. It is only by an unfortunate chance that I possess none of their magic. _

Cruel, sadistic fate is more like it.

_However, unlike the common Mudblood, I have no temptation to steal magic. Not once have I taken a wand from a witch or wizard. _

Better not tell him that Dumbledore won't let me disarm the students I punish.

_I have studied magic by candlelight, long after my youthful charges have gone to bed. I have flipped through the pages of ancient and forbidden manuscripts whilst cleaning, memorizing entire chapters full of dark spells and potions. Rest assured that my understanding of magic is just as strong as that of any of your followers. _

He doesn't need to know that I've yet to perform a single spell. Not one wand in Ollivander's ruddy shop chose me, and the one I bought from Kwikspell doesn't work. No, no, I've mastered the theory; that should be good enough.

_You might ask how I can assist you. The answer to that is obvious: As I am not counted among the wizards at Hogwarts, I am above all the petty infighting and intrigue. I know who will be loyal and who will not. Who may be of use and who would be better off—for lack of a better term—pushing up daisies. _

"_But you're a Squib," you say. True, true. But I am also pureblooded. That should count for something, shouldn't it? _

It should, but far too often it doesn't. Stupid bloody bastards, denying me a place in Hogwarts….

_Think about it. And realize that what I want, more than anything else, is to call you "My lord." _

_Yours, _

_Argus Filch _

_P.S.: Let me join, or I will hate you. _


	26. Walburga Black

_To Wobbly Jelly: I read your suggestion. I thought about it. I dismissed it as impossible. And then I thought about it again. Long story short, you win. Per your request, here is the letter from Walburga Black. _

* * *

I wish I wasn't a portrait.

Yes, yes, I've heard the arguments—it's an honor to become a portrait, countless generations will see you and hear your wisdom, portraithood is the only guaranteed path to immortality—and I must respectfully dismiss them as (for lack of a better term) a pile of male cow excrement.

First of all, everyone who was anyone in the Black family becomes a portrait. This is, of course, barring the disowned (my poor Sirius; what on earth was he thinking?) and those who joined the family through marriage. They have their own manors, their own portrait collections. (Thank goodness I'll never have to spend another Christmas with that dreadful Abraxas Malfoy! He was pleasant enough while he lived, but once he entered that portrait all he spoke of was dragon pox.)

The claim of immortality is misleading as well. I learned too late that although your portrait may survive for centuries, there is no way to know what happened to your soul. I often fear the worst, though I hope for less than that.

And as for sharing your wisdom….

I never liked looking at that house, after I became a portrait. Sirius always let it go to rot (he barely even touched the curtains, once he escaped from Azkaban. Honestly, if I escaped from that horrible place with nary a scratch, the first thing I'd do is clean my house. It would be filthy!) and he invited the worst sort of people to join him. Really, Sirius! Turning the home of your grandfathers into the Order's headquarters? I know Azkaban makes most wizards batty, but this is beyond the pale. And as for Sirius himself…

We had to disown him. He left us no choice. When you come from the most respected pureblood family in Britain, there are standards to uphold.

The first time he opened the curtains shielding my frame, I screamed. I couldn't help it. He was too thin, a skeleton clad in a layer of human flesh, eyes sunken, hair long and matted, ill-fitting rags draped over his limbs. This wasn't my son; it was his corpse come to exact vengeance for our treatment of him.

After about a minute of wide-eyed panic, he quickly closed the curtains.

From then on, every time Sirius or one of those wretched Mudbloods opened the curtains, I began shouting and carrying on until I was left in peace once more. It became something of a game: When the curtains open, you have a minute, more or less, to scream the most obscene things you can think of. Points added for anything under forty-five seconds; points deducted for anything over one minute. Shout at the sky, say whatever happens to flit through your mind, and see how quickly Sirius shuts the curtains this time.

If I could do it over? Ridiculous question. The past can't be changed. It has already been painted, like the ugly wart on my jaw. If I had five minutes with that wizard who painted me….

Sirius is gone now. He left the house nearly a year ago and hasn't returned. Kreacher dutifully informed me of his passing, though I hoped the gleam in his eye was there for some other reason. Now, the old house-elf is the only one who dares open the curtains, knowing he is the only one who will not be subjected to my screaming.

I wish he'd open them more often. The closed curtains leave me stranded in the darkness, with nothing but my own thoughts for company.

There are no quills or parchment in my frame. I could steal some from the other portraits, but few in this house have them, and those that do would sound the alarm long before I got close enough to touch their precious ink. So, alone in the silence, I am reduced to writing letters in my head. Were I lucky enough to seize some writing supplies, it would take little time to write the letter I most wish to send.

It would go something like this:

_Dearest He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, _

_It is I, Walburga Black, erstwhile matriarch of the Black family. I write this letter not in haste, nor of a desire for a reply, but because I no longer fear you. Why should I? My soul is off Merlin-knows-where doing God-knows-what, while my consciousness is preserved in this portrait. You may destroy the canvas, but there are copies. Of course I shan't tell you where they are hidden; why spoil a perfectly good surprise? _

_While I lived, I admired you. You stood proud and aloof, a light in the storm, guiding us purebloods to our rightful destiny. Perhaps some of your actions were a mite extreme, but when the ends are so lofty, so pure and _right,_ excessive force can and should be forgiven. _

_Sirius never admired you the way Regulus did. A Gryffindor to the core, he made his stance clear from the first day of the war. Dissent must not be tolerated, we told him; a family must stand as one or fall apart. When a branch dies, the pruner cuts it off and tosses it into the fire. Sirius died to us the day he left, and his name was burned from our tapestry. _

_Regulus—ah, dear Reggie. The very picture of a pureblood son, standing tall beneath Slytherin green and silver. If anyone could save the family honor from Sirius' shame, it was him. He did his best to do this, adopting everything from the perfect appearance to the Mark on his arm. Such a brave little hero, his father and I thought, as only a true Black could be. _

_But that wasn't enough for you, was it? I should have known your greed from the first. Of course Sirius wasn't enough; a Gryffindor is never a worthy sacrifice. No red-stained lion would suffice; you wanted the other. Never mind you already had him. One mistake and you demanded his life as payment. _

_You might say I know nothing of the circumstances surrounding his death, and you are right. I never had time to learn. One day he was with us, pacing his room and tearing at his hair; an owl bearing news of his death arrived a few days later. All this talk of caring for purebloods and you didn't have the decency to alert us in person! _

_I know you took him. You always were greedy, weren't you? You didn't want only wizarding Britain; you longed to bring the Muggles under subjection as well. Even that would not have satisfied you: Your next goal, Regulus knew, was that the world should know your name. Sirius knew this, I think, before Regulus did, and removed the blinders accordingly. Once you saw the scales fall from their eyes, you had to silence them. I know how it works. _

_There is little I can do to you now, imprisoned as I am between the walls of my frame. I waited until death to open my eyes; now, all I can do is scream my rage to whoever opens the curtains. But one day, that will change. One day, I will find a sympathetic ear. And on that day, my new ally shall exact my revenge upon you, and believe me when I say it will be painful. There is no greater pain than that of losing a child, and you will feel this agony in full. _

_Until we meet again, _

_Walburga Black_

_P.S.: I hate you. _


	27. Salazar Slytherin via the Sorting Hat

_This chapter started out as pure Sorting Hat, but progressed into Salazar's voice pretty quickly. I might do the other three Founders next, but I do plan to let the Sorting Hat have his say. _

* * *

There was a time, not long ago, when Slytherin House was respected.

Don't roll your eyes at me. I may be a hat, but I'm also a Legillimens. I still remember what you tried to hide from me when you were Sorted.

Yes, Slytherin was once a proud House, and a noble one. The Slytherins of the past were not courageous like the Gryffindors, nor witty like the Ravenclaws, nor hardworking like the Hufflepuffs. They were a breed all their own, those Slytherins. I haven't forgotten them….

Isadora Gavin, who introduced Godric Gryffindor's son to his future wife by staging an Inferi attack. (It took her _days_ to coach her Housemates on the proper way to walk.)

Dathan Rymore, the first wizard to knit a Shield Charm into a jumper. (Donning it was quite the defense, even if his drinking buddies never let him live it down. I could have warned him against adding the pink bow.)

Lillith McMains, who smuggled underage witches and wizards from hostile areas in wedding cakes. (And Muggles wonder how the towering confections became so popular.)

And Baron Elias de Moran, who pursued his wayward lover to their tragic end. (He always knew Helena Ravenclaw would spurn him, but vowed he would not live if he didn't try.)

They were heroes, and they were Slytherins. Gryffindors live by their strength, Ravenclaws by their wits, and Hufflepuffs by their sense of justice. Slytherins have always lived by their cunning, their resourcefulness, their ability to enact a plan with style and charm.

Unfortunately, that was then.

Oh, today's Slytherins are just as cunning as ever. They still have Salazar's resourcefulness, and they still respond to adversity with his dry wit and effortless charm. But they have been forced to use their gifts for a man who has set himself up as a god.

I'm sure you know Tom Riddle is the Heir of Slytherin. You don't know that, were Salazar Slytherin alive today, he would kick Master Riddle to the curb—literally, knowing Salazar.

The four Founders survive in me. I contain their intelligence and their personalities. Some say I hold their souls, though I know this to be untrue. But I do speak for them, and right now, Salazar Slytherin demands to have his say.

Ahem.

_To My Hideous Descendent Tom Riddle,_

_It is I, your noble ancestor, Salazar Slytherin. I hesitate to add the word "noble," for I wonder how noble a man can be, when he produced the likes of you. _

_Yes, I know we have never met. Thank Merlin we never will. I fear what I would do to you, if I met you in person. You call yourself the Heir of Slytherin. Technically speaking, this is true. You have inherited my blood, my intelligence, and my gift of Parseltongue. But you are not my heir. _

_Thoughyou attended Hogwarts—and excelled there—your actions lead me to believe that you do not know your wizarding history. You don't remember what it was like when Hogwarts was founded. Muggles were bloodthirsty; students were their favorite targets; parents were afraid to let their children wander the streets. Were all Muggles wicked? Of course not. But they enjoyed burning us—a fact I could not allow to pass unnoticed when selecting my students. _

_I have learned much through the Sorting Hat, as years progressed. I have met talented purebloods who chose Godric's House over mine. I have met ambitious Muggleborns that I have not allowed to enter any other House, damn the consequences. When I saw you, briefly, I was overjoyed that my heir had returned to Hogwarts at last. Now I wish I had disowned you on the spot. _

_Before you arrived, Tom, my House was not as it is today. Its inhabitants had a certain fondness for Dark magic, to be sure; but that does not always guarantee wickedness. (I, for one, was quite well-versed in the Dark Arts and used my knowledge to create many of the countercurses now taught at Hogwarts.) My students—my children, you might say—were intelligent (or, at the very least, perceptive), dedicated to their studies, and ready to turn any situation to their advantage. They were ambitious in the best sense: their fingers itched to climb the ladder of success as high as it would take them. _

_All that changed when you came. _

_Quickly, Slytherin underwent changes. Muggleborns were spurned with open hatred. The Dark Arts were no longer spoken of with hushed respect, but practiced in the common room. Your Death Eaters (honestly, could you have given them a more ridiculous name? do they even consider what Death tastes like?) seated themselves at the pinnacle of the Slytherin hierarchy. You did all this in my name—a name, I am sorry to say, you are not worthy to bear. How can you object? You destroyed my House. You corrupted my children. You turned my name into a curse. "Better Hufflepuff than Slytherin," they say. I cringe, and you laugh. _

_It is not only the sad fate of my House that infuriates me, nor the trampling of my good name. It is you, Tom, that has caused me the most grief. You are the most well-known of my descendants, and look at what you've done to yourself! You have no hair, no nose, and no color. What must people think of Salazar Slytherin, when they see you? _

_I longed to accept you as my distant son, Tom Riddle, but you have become a stain on my family tree. I wash my hands of you. _

_Your sickened ancestor,_

_Salazar Slytherin _

_P.S.: I hate you. _


	28. Helga Hufflepuff via the Sorting Hat

_Wow! I am so humbled by everyone who said they loved the last chapter! (Especially since I'm not even a Slytherin!) :P Thank you all so much! _

_This next one is for all you Hufflepuffs out there. I only hope I got your Founder right. _

* * *

Hufflepuffs and Slytherins have much in common.

Oh, there you go again. "No, they don't! How dare you say that! I'll light you on fire, you know!"

Go ahead and light me on fire. I'll call your mother and tell her everything you never wanted her to know.

Salazar Slytherin has spoken his piece; and as much as I would love to leave it at that, Helga Hufflepuff now taps me on the shoulder—or lack thereof. (Does no one want to hear what_ I_ have to say?)

_My Dearest Tom, _

_How on earth did you manage to get into Hogwarts? _

_I'm not trying to be rude; I am genuinely curious. Honestly, when Godric chose Albus Dumbledore, I thought the future Headmaster would do a better job of separating the friendly students from the psychopaths! _

_Forgive me for my bluntness, Tom. I do not mean to hurt you. I am only wondering why you, an orphan boy with no home to speak of, would destroy the only home that has ever welcomed him! Not only is such a decision wicked; it is completely nonsensical and counterproductive. _

_You speak often of your "noble ancestor, Salazar Slytherin," from whom you received your abilities and your uncompromising view of the wizarding world. You loathe the Gryffindors, ignore the Ravenclaws, and openly mock the Hufflepuffs, all the while crediting poor Salazar with your actions. Obviously, you know little of your dear ancestor. _

_Salazar was not perfect. Unlike Godric, he never claimed to be anywhere near perfection. But he did have a number of good traits, one of them being a strong desire to protect what he loved at any cost. It was he who placed the strongest enchantments around Hogwarts, making it invisible to Muggles and mostly immune to their weaponry. He was a bit paranoid of the young Muggleborn students, but when a man loses his beloved daughter to unchecked bigotry, he often can't help embracing a bit of prejudice himself. _

_It would be awful enough if your actions only corrupted your House, but your reign of terror has extended to my House as well. Do you honestly believe I taught my students fairness so they could shun a quarter of the school? No, Tom, I taught my children to accept everyone—including Slytherins. They were to be an example to the school, friends of everyone, enemies of none. _

_Thanks to you, this dream may never again be realized. _

_Do you remember Cedric Diggory? I doubt it. He was just another idiotic Hufflepuff, wasn't he? Nothing more than an obstacle in your path—an obstacle you did not hesitate to remove. To me, he was more than that. Cedric Diggory was a dying breed—one of the last true Hufflepuffs to grace Hogwarts. While his Housemates shunned the Slytherins—or worse, joined them in taunting Harry Potter—Cedric stood alone. He gently admonished his Housemates for wearing the badges, and reminded them that Potter had done nothing wrong. Had he lived to confront you, I believe Cedric would have nipped your disgusting plan in the bud. _

_And what have we now? Without Cedric, has Hufflepuff continued the course I charted nearly a thousand years ago? Of course not. Cedric—the last of the true Hufflepuffs—is gone, and without his guidance, my House has elected to do nothing until pressed into service. They are not like the Slytherins, they reason. Why should they strive to be more? Why should they befriend those who have started the war, even when such friendships could end it?_

_Dear Tom, can't you see what you've done? You have destroyed the name of your ancestor, corrupting the only home you ever loved. Those who would once have embraced you and loved you regardless of your shortcomings now turn their backs on any who associate with you—even if that association is in name only. You have ruined my children, and I fear they shall never recover their good name. _

_Were we to meet in person, I would not shun you. I would invite you in to the kitchen for some of my famous dishes. There, surrounded by cheerful house-elves, we would share a dish and a long discussion. I once held the belief that if I could only do this, I could change the course of your life. But seeing what you have come to, I must sadly acknowledge that this is not the case. I fear nothing can pull you back from the dark pit you have knowingly descended—and I fear you do not wish to be rescued. _

_Farewell, Tom. I can only pray you will one day be defeated, so your reign of terror can at last be ended. _

_Helga Hufflepuff _

_P.S.: I don't want to hate you, but I'm afraid I already do. _


	29. Rowena Ravenclaw via the Sorting Hat

_According to Pottermore, Quirrell was a Ravenclaw. I'm using that scrap of information for my own ends. _

* * *

Rowena Ravenclaw. Long renowned as the most intelligent of the Hogwarts founders, she now requests to say her piece.

Will I let her? Of course I will. You people never want to listen to _me, _anyway.

_My Dearest Tom,_

_What in the name of your venerated ancestor do you think you're doing? _

_As I realize that can apply to a broad category of crimes against humanity, allow me to rephrase my question: How could someone as intelligent as you resort to terrorism and genocide? _

_My House has long been renowned for intellect. Even you hold to this tradition: Your often grudging respect for my children has spared the life of more than one Ravenclaw. Had you softened your pride before attending our school, you might have chosen my House—but that is so improbable it hardly bears mentioning. You were so foolishly proud of your lineage, so enamored with Salazar's legacy (a legacy, I must inform you, he never intended to leave) that your path was set long before you were Sorted. If I were so inclined, I would believe it was fate. _

_Salazar chose you, Tom. He knew you for his descendant immediately and clamored for you without a thought. Had he known what you would become, he would have rejected you immediately. I must say I would do the same. _

_Do you remember Quirinus Quirrell? I would be surprised if you did. He was nothing more than a means to an end, wasn't he? Even the fabled Harry Potter thought of him as a mere pawn in your twisted game—an obstruction to the cause of good, but not one to mourn. Yet I know differently. Quirinus was a Ravenclaw. _

_He was not the most brilliant student I've encountered—that honor must go to you, dear Tom—but his thirst for knowledge was endearing. He spent hours poring over books, committing pages and passages to memory when he found something worth hanging on to, reading aloud to whoever would listen when the mood struck him. It wasn't unusual for him to skip a meal or two so he could keep reading, then sneak food from the kitchens when he remembered his empty stomach. But he was a delicate boy, thin and frail—and in the cruel world of childhood, this made him a target. I'm sure his initial fear of house-elves didn't help his cause. _

_But Quirinus conquered that fear. When he grew too hungry to avoid the kitchens any longer, he took the plunge and asked them for food. Sadly, the same would apply to the Dark Arts. A purely intellectual pursuit became his Achilles heel, and when the time came, you did not hesitate to exploit it. _

_I could go on about poor Quirinus, but he is not the only Ravenclaw you have stolen from me. My House was created to accept the most intelligent students, but it has become the default House for those would-be Slytherins too disillusioned to join their parents' House, and too frightened of them to join Gryffindor or Hufflepuff. My Ravenclaws sit in their common room, studying with each other, refusing to share their knowledge with the rest of the school. They remember Quirinus—if not in name, in reputation—and, in trying to avoid his fate, refuse to consort with those who might possibly lead them astray. _

_This is not what I wanted them to do. My Ravenclaws were to use their knowledge for the good of all. When they saw a fellow student (yes, even a Slytherin) starting down the wrong path, I wanted them to spot it and, in the wisdom gleaned from their studies, to prevent the wayward soul from wandering too far. Now they are selfish. They keep their wisdom to themselves. Much of this behavior can be traced to you. _

_Do you honestly believe Ravenclaws have always been snobbish? Yes, my daughter was. But in her time, she was viewed as such by her peers. I turned a blind eye to her behavior….but I shall put that grief aside for now. _

_You frightened them, Tom. You scared them off. They respected your brilliance and you cursed them away. Helga's children avoided you. Godric's children snubbed you. Is it any wonder my children followed their lead? Now, they refuse to aid those stained by your corrupted House—even those who escaped from it by way of the Sorting Hat. They're the children of Death Eaters. Why should any self-respecting Ravenclaw consort with such folk? _

_I wish I could speak with you, Tom. If I were in Hogwarts today, I would take you to the library for a tour of the Forbidden Section. There, I would endeavor to show you where your path would lead—and the lives you would destroy in the process. Yet I know you would not listen. You would remember the Dark spells, but not their aftermath. A man so intent on destruction cannot be deterred, even if one of the lives demolished is his own. _

_I cannot hope for Ravenclaw's healing. Not after you wounded it so. All I can hope is that your intellect will fail you, and that Harry Potter will be victorious at last. _

_Sincerely, _

_Rowena Ravenclaw _

_P.S.: I hate you. _


	30. Godric Gryffindor via the Sorting Hat

_I always thought there was more to Salazar Slytherin than just a racist bigot who hid a basilisk beneath the school, and that there was more to Godric Gryffindor than the righteous man who banished him. I know I'm taking quite a different route than the one Rowling set forth, but I'm trying to keep Godric as in-character as I can regardless. Feel free to disagree with my interpretation of the characters and Houses here. _

* * *

Godric Gryffindor is next. He begs to be heard—but you may not like what he has to say.

Then again, I'm just a talking hat. What do I know?

* * *

_Dear Tom Riddle, _

_So you claim to be Slytherin's heir, do you? Tom Riddle, the Founder's distant son, come home to claim what is rightfully his. A nice thought, but it is as much fantasy as the typical student's beliefs about the school's history. _

_You have heard the legends. Godric Gryffindor, Helga Hufflepuff, Rowena Ravenclaw, and Salazar Slytherin banded together and formed Hogwarts, a place where young witches and wizards could study magic in peace. But Salazar, blinded by prejudice, tried to keep the Muggle-born students from attending. Godric, the righteous one, after many an unheeded warning, cast the wicked Salazar from his sight, and closed Hogwarts' doors to him for evermore, so all students could have a fair chance. _

_I know what you saw when you read this legend. You saw the same tableau every student sees: Me, firm and unyielding, yet sorrowful; Salazar shaking his fist and vowing revenge; Rowena and Helga flanking me, watching their erstwhile friend with pitiless contempt. You heard the doors slam in his face and watched your ancestor walk away, muttering curses under his breath. I wish this vision was reality, for then I could finally have some peace. _

_Salazar was brilliant—perhaps the most brilliant of us all. And he was prejudiced—no two ways around it. He did not curse Muggle-borns for fun, as some Gryffindors claim; nor did he fly into a rage whenever one arrived at the school. He regarded them with suspicion, yes, but not open hatred. That would come later. _

_You remember the crisis, I'm sure. It is the foundation of your bigotry, whether you acknowledge it or not. History books have done it a great disservice, I think, by confusing the date of the Flame-Freezing Charm's invention. That it came long after Salazar left Hogwarts makes all the difference. Had his early experiments been successful, his daughter might have been saved. _

_He knew who was responsible for her death. He might have sought revenge, were it not for Rowena's intervention. Teaching seemed to dull his grief. When I heard him speak fondly of his daughter with his students, I thought he had healed completely; it had been years since he had even mentioned her by name._

_When the grandson of his daughter's murderer came to Hogwarts, I was proven wrong. It took only a few minutes for the argument to spiral out of control, culminating in his declaration to never accept another Muggle-born. _

_I commanded him to leave, claiming he was unfit to join us as a teacher. Salazar didn't shake his fist at me as I slammed the door. He didn't vow revenge. He merely claimed that one day, he or his descendant would return, and they would set things right. I thought he meant he would do away with Muggle-borns, once and for all, and I used this thought to soothe the gnawing guilt. _

_I didn't know about the basilisk. I still don't know why the fool kept it. Perhaps he was experimenting with its venom, trying to synthesize a cure other than phoenix tears. Perhaps he placed it—a creature only he or his descendants could control—there as a reminder that he was still needed. I will never know, for I did not learn of it until Harry Potter killed it. By that time, you had already given it a taste for human flesh, and Potter was not interested in asking the creature why it was living beneath the school. _

_Potter saw the basilisk as any twelve-year-old Gryffindor would: a threat to be annihilated. And in that instance, he was correct. The creature would have killed dozens, if not hundreds, had Potter's quick thinking not stopped it. Yet this view of things did not stop with the basilisk, but extended to all of Salazar's children. There are few shades of grey to that boy, and he sees them only with great reluctance. He is too much like me in that regard. _

_True, he has many good qualities. He is brave, noble, and chivalrous. He puts the well-being of others above his own—unless, it seems, the other in question is a Slytherin. He will inconvenience himself long enough to make sure the Slytherin's life is spared, but his mercy begins and ends there. _

_It is not only Potter who has embraced this doctrine. Pride is a flaw that beats in the heart of every Gryffindor, and who better to thumb their noses at than the Slytherins? They have it coming, they reason. They chose the path of righteousness, while the Slytherins chose the opposite way. If one does not choose the right path from the beginning, and stay on that path until the end, then one deserves whatever hardship comes his way. This is their philosophy._

_I love my Gryffindors, Tom. They embody so many praiseworthy qualities. Yet these admirable traits are shared only with each other, or with the other "righteous" Houses. It is a rare Gryffindor who will say that Slytherins deserve kindness. How can I object? They learned it from me. And thanks to you, they may never learn differently. _

_Salazar has suffered at the hands of ignorant historians, but none have been so unkind to his memory as you, Tom. You are the epitome of everything detestable in that House—everything Salazar despised in himself. Before your coming, the Ravenclaws at least were willing to give Slytherin the benefit of the doubt; but now, even they have turned their backs. My Gryffindors nod their solemn approval, and the Slytherins become more sullen and withdrawn. Thus the circle continues, with no end in sight. They shun those who might have become their friends—like I shunned my dearest friend all those years ago. _

_I can never go back and reconcile with my friend. The feud we began nearly a millennium before still rages. And thanks to you, my Gryffindors will never bury the hatchet. I can only hope Harry Potter will defeat you at last, and restore order to your chaotic world. _

_Sincerely, _

_Godric Gryffindor _

_P.S.: Words cannot express how much I hate you. _


	31. Theodore Nott

_Sorry this chapter was so long in coming, guys. I had a breakup, a breakdown, and a nasty song written about me (apparently, it's called "Whatever Helps You Sleep") all before I learned I probably have Asperger's and began what I hope is my final year in college. So….yeah, I've had a lot on my plate. But, after receiving Jocasta Silver's suggestion, this chapter started to come together. _

_Oh, yeah, and I've been working on an original book, but a lot of the pieces are still missing, so it probably won't be finished for at least several years. _

* * *

I have always been friends with Draco.

I'm the only person who can say that without lying. Pansy didn't meet him until the Hogwarts Express. Blaise didn't meet him until an unfortunate incident at a bakery when they were both eight. Even Vincent didn't know he existed until, at age four, his mother worked up the nerve to bring Narcissa Malfoy a pie and a bit of gossip. Greg's mother followed a month later.

But me? I've always been right there next to him, or standing in the background. When Pansy left our car, he told me she was kind of pretty, for a girl. When Blaise spun round, knocking his mother's fourth wedding cake right onto Draco's head, I was the one who helped him get the frosting out of his hair and robes and shoes—after I finished laughing, of course. And when my mother met with Narcissa to discuss the two newest pureblood women in town, Draco shrugged and said their kids were nice. So of course, when he took the Mark this past summer, I was the first to see the twisted black across his forearm.

You should've seen the look on his face. It wasn't pride, or elation at being the first of his group chosen for the honor. I'm one of the few who has ever seen Draco Malfoy afraid—truly afraid, not momentarily startled—and even when he tries to hide it I know it's there.

I knew I was next. And I knew I should feel the same way Draco should be feeling, but it was too late—his fear had rubbed off on me. No amount of rationalizing, of excusing the dark circles beneath his eyes and his lost weight as the results of too much homework and overexertion in Quidditch practices, could ease the terror creeping in like a cold, foul wind. So I have decided to work through it the best way I know how.

I'm going to write a letter.

_To the Esteemed Dark Lord, _

The words look flat on the page. It's not the title he deserves. It's not the title I want to give him. But it's the one that will have to do.

_I, Theodore Nott, must respectfully and regretfully inform you that, should you ever deign to offer me the Mark, I shall be unable to accept. This is a decision I do not make lightly; however, after careful considerations of all potential paths, I must admit that life as a Death Eater fell quite low on the list. _

I haven't given any reasons. I need to give reasons.

_Had you asked a year ago, I would have accepted gladly. I would have followed you around like my father, crooning "Yes, my lord," "No, my lord," "Shall I fetch your socks, my lord?" all day long, and thought nothing of it when your filthy, matted socks melted the flesh from my hands. That is the life I was raised to esteem. I heard my father's tales of valor and thought I was being trained as a noble warrior. Now I know that is a lie. _

Now that the words are pouring out of me, I can't stop them. I can only keep my quill moving and hope it catches up.

_Draco was honored to be chosen. His entire life he had dreamed of the moment that Mark would appear on his arm and he could call you his lord. For that I blame his father, my father, and the entire lot of those lap dogs you call servants. They might as well be house-elves, for all the consideration you show them. _

_He's not the boy I've known all my life. Oh, the basics are still there, but everything that made him my friend is gone. He doesn't joke. He doesn't laugh. He rarely smiles or even looks you in the eye anymore. You don't know how many times I've awoken in the night to the sound of him sobbing into his pillow; how many times I've had to cast a spell round his bed so he doesn't wake the others and demolish what's left of his pride. _

My jaw is clenched so tightly my teeth ache. I move the quill faster, pouring out the words, before I can snap it in two.

_He fears you. Not in the way my father and his did, in that awestruck way a child would fear the wizard Merlin if he suddenly appeared in their drawing room. He lives in fear that you will take his life. I'm tired of waking every morning in a cold sweat, tapping on his curtains, awaiting his reply. I'm sick of going to bed each night, wondering if that's the night he'll save you the trouble. _

That _is why I'll never join you. _That _is why the thought of taking the Mark makes me physically ill. And _that _is why, if you ever remember that Andrew Nott has a son, I will take my friend and leave. You won't find us. We'll find you. And on that day….oh, that will be a glorious day indeed! Your skull will make a lovely urinal. _

_Until then, please do not think about me. _

_Never Yours, _

_Theodore Nott _

_P.S.: I hate you _

I read the note once, twice more before folding it into quarters. It's a good note. Excellent, really, but as worthless at fighting the Dark Lord as the parchment it's printed on. Even if he read it—and he never will—it wouldn't keep him from choosing me. Wouldn't keep him from tormenting my friend. If anything, he'd Mark my arm faster than you can say knife and kill Draco then and there. If I know him, he'd make it slow.

Without another thought, I hold the paper to the candle and watch the flame dissolve it. Then I put my head in my hands. I shiver, but I don't know why.

I hate being helpless.


	32. Luna Lovegood

_Thank you to my brother for telling me about carpet vipers. Only you told me that their venom was deadly, so I stayed up all night, terrified that there might be carpet vipers in my bed. It took me until four in the morning to tell our parents what was scaring me. I passed the test I had to take that morning, but I will never forget the terror I felt as an eight-year-old girl, lying awake, scared to death that invisible snakes would kill her. _

* * *

I've heard of a recent trend, here at Hogwarts. Apparently, many of my fellow students are writing letters to Voldemort.

Oh, did I say his name? I'm sorry. I forget it disturbs some people. So of course I don't dare tell them the disturbing news that there may very well be carpet vipers in their beds. They're tiny little snakes who blend in perfectly with carpet or fabric, and when you step on them, their venom can seep in through any cuts or abrasions you might have on your feet. The venom travels up to your brain, where it makes you dumber. Poor Crabbe and Goyle. If only they had believed me….

What? Of course they live inside. It's warmer indoors. Why would they live outside where it's cold? I found three in Marietta Edgecombe's bed just last week, but when I showed them to her, she accused me of putting them there. Then she threw the poor little dears into the toilet and….oh, I can't bear to think of it! No, she didn't attend their funeral, but she did throw her shoe at me when I played the bagpipes for them.

Anyway, carpet vipers are perfectly harmless if you don't step on them. Their venom is nothing more than a last defense, and it only hurts you if you've a wound on your foot. So the best thing you can do is visit Madam Pomfrey or reach for the dittany if you find a cut on your foot or ankle or anywhere else.

What was I talking about again?

Oh, yes. The notes to Voldemort. Since I hate him, I suppose I'd better write one.

_Dear Voldemort, _

_Did you know that there might be carpet vipers in your bed? _

I cross that out, then throw the page away. He doesn't need to know. It's better if he doesn't know.

_Dear Voldemort, _

_Quite a few of my peers are writing letters to you, telling you how much they hate you. I pretend not to know. I pretend not to hear as they whisper what Loony Lovegood might write, if she ever pulled her head out of the clouds long enough to put quill to parchment. Little do they know, I've spent a lot of time planning what I would say to you. _

_I don't like you very much. Actually, no, I don't like you at all. _

_Few people know this, but it's not easy for me to make friends. My Housemates don't seem too fond of me, given that they never heed my warnings about wrackspurts. I'm sure your head is full of them, but I'm not going to tell you what they are, because you won't believe me either._

_Now that you are somewhat in power, my father feels he must warn people. And those who are afraid of you are afraid of me too. _

The quill trembles in my hand, splattering ink onto the page. I didn't know I felt so strongly about this. I…I didn't know it hurt so much until I put the pain into words.

_I had a few Slytherin friends. One or two, here or there. Even Malfoy liked it when I announced that Quidditch game. He told me afterwards he hadn't laughed so hard in months. _

I think of his smile. Not the mocking one he wears around Potter. (One thing I will say about Malfoy is that his smiles are easy to tell apart. Not like Romilda Vane's. If she smiles at me while saying she likes my scarf, I can never be sure if she really means it or if she's holding back a laugh. But with Malfoy you always know where you stand.) When he smiled at me, he looked as though I'd caught his hand before he fell from the Astronomy Tower. When he thanked me, I knew he was truly grateful.

_Of course he ran away right after he said it. He couldn't be seen with me, and I knew I couldn't be seen with him. He has to keep the respect of his friends and his parents. Your respect is probably the most important, but I don't know how much he really cares about it. Or, should I say, how much he wants to care. _

Hm? Oh, of course I knew Malfoy was a Death Eater. It's fairly obvious. I don't know how Granger and Weasley haven't seen it yet, but I'm not going to tell them. There's no sense in causing an uproar.

_And that's the thing: I don't want to care about you. I don't want to care about what you're going to do next or who is going to be angry at me when my dad writes about it in the _Quibbler. _I want to treat you like a nothing, like a mosquito that won't go away, but you won't let me. You've grown too strong, and now there are all of these perfectly nice people that I can't be friends with because you told them not to. Because you told me not to. Because, no matter how little I claim to care what others think of me, yours is the one opinion I have to take into consideration. _

The page blurs, and I wipe my eyes with my sleeve.

_If I said what I wanted out loud, my Housemates would laugh at me. They would stare at me in disbelief—and then pounce on me. "What makes you think Malfoy would be a good friend, Lovegood?" "Malfoy? Nott? Why do you want to be friends with them? They're horrible people!" _

_But I don't think that's true. I think that if you had never existed, they would be better. Without you to worry about, they could be friends with whomever they pleased, and I would have more of them. _

_There are plenty of teachers who would call me immature, blaming Voldemort on my lack of friends. "You just need to socialize more," McGonagall would say. "Perhaps, if you dressed a bit more—how shall I put this—normally, you would have less trouble." But she doesn't understand. Neville understands. He has his difficulties with magic; I have my difficulties with people. _

I don't feel strange, pouring out my heart to Voldemort. I only wish I could say this to his face. If he could only see the world as it is, he would listen to reason.

_Some people can become friends with anyone they meet. I am not one of them. There are only a handful of people who I feel I might understand—people who might understand me—and you have kept me from befriending many of them. _

_I don't know what I hope becomes of you. _

Yes I do—but I'm not about to tell him that. It involves the Weasley twins, a duck suit, a handful of steak, and a hungry Thestral.

_I hope Potter kills you soon. Or Malfoy. Whoever can manage to get close to you with a knife. _

_Sincerely, _

_Luna Lovegood _

_P.S.: I hate you. _

I fold the note and dry my eyes, but the tears keep coming. So I cry until they're gone.

When I can think clearly again, I shove the note into my pocket. I think some carpet vipers will hasten Voldemort's demise, don't you? If he's too stupid to post guards, to strategize, to do all of the things that have kept him in power for so long, it will be easier to defeat him.

Hmmm…carpet vipers in his shoes….if the sweet little things could stay still long enough, he might not know until it's too late. I wonder where he keeps his shoes?

Perhaps Malfoy knows. I think I'll ask him.


End file.
